


The City Lights in the Snow

by jmcats



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Christmas AU, M/M, Ziam fic, a bit of Niall/Gemma, holiday au, lourry, pining and a bunch of other things, ziam smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-06 02:05:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 70,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1101112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jmcats/pseuds/jmcats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He only ever sees them, <i>his boys</i>, during this time of year and it's never enough. Not in this place, this city, with a new face like Zayn's reminding him that love and friendships don't last for a holiday.  <i>'Without question, and whenever asked, Liam will always say that this time of year is his favorite.'</i></p><p>(or a holiday fic where Liam loves his city but he loves Niall and Harry and Louis (and maybe Zayn) a lot more)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's just a silly holiday fic where Liam wants nothing more than his boys ad kind of falls for Harry's university roommate. I don't know how _Midnight Memories_ made me think of this fic (and I bet you can't pick out what songs inspired what scenes) but it was supposed to be simple and about Christmas. Sorry it turned into two chapters!
> 
> Big thanks to Caitlin and Eszter and Lea for encouraging me through this. This fic is definitely owed to [ Lynn ](http://ziamisthenameofmyship.tumblr.com) as a belated birthday gift and for being a constant cheerleader to so many 1D writers.
> 
> Please excuse the madness of it all -- the holidays make almost everyone sappy, me included.

 

 

Without question, and whenever asked, Liam will always say that this time of year is his favorite.

It’s halfway through December and the sky is a dense slate grey, scraps of bluish charcoal spaces that look sprightly when lit by the flaxen sun.  The streets are that quiet, quiet flow of early morning joggers, sunrise shoppers, the shift of shopkeepers that brave the cold air to get a fresh start.  There’s a scattering of children playing amongst the glitter and frost, tossing snowballs and ringing out gleeful cheers that play like chunky guitar strums in his ears.

This city – more like a small town, an ecosystem of the same faces, same shops, same _everything_ he’s known since an infant – feels like electricity underneath his fingertips and he smiles at the way it’s always the same.  Every year, every season, every breath, like clockwork.

The remains of last night’s storm – when the sky was an inky purple, a haze of flurries that stuck to window panes and clung to tightly closed coats like dizzy stars under the street lamps – are still so prevalent.  The flakes of snow stick to the ground, crunch under the pressure of his boots.  They cover the still cars on the nearly empty streets like a soft, soft blanket of ivory and sleek shine.  He tugs down the edge of his beanie until it covers his eyebrows, sits on the bridge of his nose before blowing warm breath into his bare hands.  It’s that small sip of winter delight that fills his lungs – icy and wintergreen – and he waves to Ms. Byrne, the owner of that sweet coffee shop he loves; Wagner, who’s been the city’s butcher for more years than he’s been alive; and Mr. Walsh, who owns the book shop that Liam’s burrowed himself in for hours since he was ten, flipping through _Iron Man_ , used editions of _Detective Comics_ , losing himself in _Emerald Knights_ until he thought he was Hal Jordan for a few brief, blurry moments.

He pulls at the edge of his thick sweater – the one his grandmother knit him a few years before her death – and tugs his coat closer to his chest before enduring a breeze that casts tears across his face and an awful shade of pink to his cheeks.  He grins, hauls in a deep breath of _winter wonderland_ while his eyelashes flutter against the remains of dancing snowflakes.  It fills him with the kind of heat felt around a bonfire, cheeks tight when they lift at the way Johannah still escorts the twins – in pigtails and plaid skirts and huge, puffy pink coats – down the silent streets toward a music studio for ballet rehearsals.

His tongue licks out to tasty bitter snowflakes and wet dry lips, his nose twitching as he glides down endless streets that look white, pure like floating clouds beneath his feet.

Liam scratches dull nails at the bits of day-old scruff running against his jaw, fishing out a set of keys from his coat pocket when he passes the bakery – the one his mum owns and where he still remembers stealing to late afternoons just to see a pair of warm, freckled gold-green eyes and Harry Styles still smiles so warmly whenever he sees Liam – and that small inn Mr. Cowell owns – plus another half a dozen shops in the city, but everyone lost count of how many years ago – before stopping at that door with the glass pane trimmed in frost and that familiar bell hanging high above.

His dad has owned the Silver Flask since he was five years old, bartending there before he was even born.  It’s some sort of landmark in the city – just as Mr. Walsh’s book shop, that old record store that still sells vinyl and has open mic night on Tuesdays, that old fountain at the center of the city that only works in the spring but attracts visitors just the same all year long – and probably the only traditional pub left for too many kilometers.  It’s some sort of family tradition – his sisters worked there through the last half of secondary school before marrying off to nice homegrown chaps and he’s been bussing tables, cleaning up behind bladdered patrons, working the line in the kitchen since he was fifteen before finally working his way up to tending bar just a year ago.

He nudges open the door with his foot and knee, using his shoulder for extra emphasis, before stumbling inside.  The sun swirls pretty tangerine square shapes over the floors, against the wood walls, down across the empty tables.  He kicks the door closed before taking in a deep inhale of stale air, lingering stains of cigarette smoke, that heady scent of untouched beers.  He rubs his hands together briskly, trying to warm numb fingertips before a sticky grin slides over his lips at the Union Jack hanging over the bar, the stools lying upside down on the counter, the sun kicking dust into the air.

 _Home_.  This place, swamped in shadows and darkness and this pub is so old, the floors still creak heavy under his feet.  But it’s always been home – _his_ home.

He steals a glance over his shoulder, warm, open smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, at the city glazed over by the ice on the windows.  Every inch of it – from the small buildings to the quant shops to the streets he’s walked bare foot in the summer – is his home.

Some days, he thinks it’s sad and tragic.  But this time of year?  It feels like a spiral of something intangible against the palm of his hand and he’s always afraid it’ll slip through the cracks between his fingers or fade off like a hazy dream against the gunmetal sky.

Somewhere, Liam thinks this place is just that – _a_ _dream_.  He’s never certain if that’s a good or bad thing.

He hangs up his coat and scarf in that small office his father spends more time in than their own living room back home – that small house on a barely-lived on street where he’s carved his name into one of the baseboards and there’s still faint scratches of red, blue, yellow on his bedroom walls from where he’d color on them as a child.  Sometimes, he thinks this is his father’s life – this pub, this business, this large stretch of friendly faces he knows but doesn’t love.

Liam flicks on all of the lights, kicking away the shadows and everything glows powdered gold.  He undoes the buttons on the cuff of his plaid shirt, rolling up the sleeves to his elbows before reaching beneath the bar to grab a clean towel and draping it over his shoulder.  He nips at his bottom lip, a half-smile across pink lips as he soaks in this emptiness – it’s in these moments, he wrestles with that tragedy because this is all he’s known.

This bar, this city, this life.  Day after day, breathing in the same air and swallowing down the same cool _regret_ until his throat feels raw.

The pub is one of those warm, friendly places that you don’t soon forget hours, _days_ after leaving.  It’s a large space, mainly anchored by an old bar that sits ominously in the center of the room.  There’s square and circular tables – his parents never could decide on which looked best because his father begged _practical_ while his mum roared for _eclectic_ and some mild obsession with _feng shui_ – and hardwood floors that are dressed in gloss and scuff marks.  Thin curtains hide some of the light of the sky and there’s one of those neon _‘open’_ signs in the large window near the door that flickers in and out – the _‘E’_ long faded out.  There’s a blue felt pool table near the jukebox – because Ruth demanded _modern_ before she married Olly – and an old table in one of the corners with a chess board that’s rarely touched except for those few quiet moments when Liam’s dad begs him over for a noiseless, simple game that ends in Liam winning but only because his father lets him – not that he’ll ever admit it aloud to Liam, but he knows.

He’s always known.

He moves into the corner, kicking at that old jukebox his father refuses to replace because he attaches _sentimental_ to everything old, worn, and nostalgic.  Something like a smile kisses his mouth, just at the corners, when the opening synthesizer precedes ‘Baba O’Riley’ before he shuffles off into the warming light of the sun frosting through the thin emerald curtains draped over the windows.

Liam sets up all of the chairs and stools, wipes down the tables in a quick motion before moving behind the bar.  He stretches his fingers over the old, softly worn wood and leans forward.  He sniffs at bourbon and uncapped vodka, lets the spilling scent of nineteen different taps of beer fill his nostrils.  He shifts his eyes closed, everything warm and orangey behind the lids like the sun is laying gentle kisses to his face.  He blinks them open to the music shifting – _Take on me. Take me on. I’ll be gone in a day or two_ – and his smile would be contagious if there was anyone else here to see it.

He’s quick about cleaning out the mugs, rock glasses, rolling silverware in cloth napkins – another touch from his mum because _‘when things look posh, people feel rich my love’_ and his father refused to argue otherwise – before dancing behind the bar to the revolution of Rod Stewart, Pink Floyd, Fall Out Boy, and the soft beats of Bon Iver.  He’s halfway through an air guitar solo behind the bar to ‘Welcome to the Jungle’ when the kitchen staff bursts through the door with laughter and the stretch of pink across his cheeks feels augmented by their pointed fingers and soft _hello’s_.  He waves tiny finger back, ducking his head and he rubs at the four chevrons inked into his forearm until he thinks ‘ _geek_ ’ should replace each thick arrow.

“Quite adorable,” Jade says, leaning over the bar to flick his nose, “but horribly overdone, babe.  Next time – stick with Prince.”

He grins at her – brown hair pulled sloppily into a ponytail, thick eyelashes, big brown eyes that he’s known since they were in fucking diapers and fighting over stuffed animals.  Her cheeks are a little more defined now, her skin this soft creamy texture, her smile a bit glossier but still the same as it was when she was big-framed eyeglasses and strawberry bubblegum and dodgy clothes in Ninth Year.

“Sorted,” he mumbles, nodding at her before she escapes to the kitchen to start prep and slide into a freshly pressed Oxford rather than her skinny jeans and tight turtleneck.

He wipes the sweat from his brow when it’s just him again, smudging his smile with his fingers, and the sun fights with the clouds until all of the slow falling snowflakes outside look like careening stars behind his eyelashes.  He snatches a bottled water from behind the bar, swallowing down half of it before mopping the floors.

After the bar is clean and he’s let Jade run over the specials of the day – creamy broccoli soup and some new take on fish and chips that he’s sure is brilliant but, otherwise, could care less for – he boils up some hot water before steeping a bag of breakfast tea, adding just enough milk and honey to be distracting in that pleasant way his mum taught him.  He plops down at an empty table in the corner by that small Christmas tree his mum buys every year that’s sparsely decorated – he’s draped it in garland and ornaments with his sisters since he was tall enough to reach the branches – because Ruth and Nicola are away this year.  The tea burns his lips and rolls deliciously over his tongue as he kicks a foot up on an empty chair, tapping his fingers along to the strum of the Lumineers and something oddly folk-like in the vein of Carly Simon, touches of rare Elton John.

He barrels through a bowl of Weetabix, watching the door with careful eyes and the way the sun melts the ice, flows through the room like a speckled yellow brick road – and no, he does not think in voices like _‘Toto, there’s no place like home’_ but he kind of does – until everything goes blurry, unrecognizable for a second or two.

“They’ll be here soon,” Jade cheers when she peeks her head out of the kitchen, looking a little less fashionista and a little more work-ready.

Liam looks up, a gentle smile smoothing over his lips and he nods.  “Same crowd, different day.”

Jade snorts, shaking her head.  “Not them, Li.”

He crinkles his brow, mulling over the stretch of her lips before – _oh_.

 _Them_.

He breathes in a shaky breath that fills his lungs with stars and concave sunshine and that kind of nauseating feeling that follows too many twists on a rollercoaster or six too many shots of whiskey.  It stirs in his chest – moving fleetingly, warming his blood – and he lowers his chin to hide his smile.  His cheeks heat with soft freckled pink and he sips at his tea rather than saying _‘soon, they’ll be here_ soon _.’_

“Yeah,” he breathes out over the steam of his cup.  He blinks at her, shaking his head because she’s grinning manically.  “That lot.”

Jade rolls her eyes promptly, biting at a corner of her lip.  “Quit playing stupid, Payne.  You’re probably about to shit your pants with excitement.  You’ve been in love with those three boys since you were – “

 _Since we were thirteen, sipping Coke, and trying to rule the world_ , he thinks with an extra breath just to stop the static numbness working its way through his bones.  He smirks, tipping his head back.

“ – and I swear, if you lot terrorize this town for another Christmas, I will kick your arses,” she adds without an inch of harshness to her tone; just a fond smile that melts against Liam’s skin.  She winks at him, tilting her head to attach, “And I’ll tell your mummy about that time Lou and Harry convinced you to smoke that joint in my basement right after you – “

Liam gasps and tosses a wet teabag at her, missing but her shriek is still enough to drum a smile to his lips again.  There’s playful looks they share, like brother and sister, before she flips him off to duck into the kitchen.

He slouches down into his chair, sipping at his tea until he can taste _comfort_ and _exhilaration_ before watching the door once more.  He chews at his lip until it’s raw, aching, and it feels nothing like the anticipation burning beneath his fingertips.

It feels strange – this place, this city, his home – but he knows every inch of this room feels like open spaces until they fill it.

And _sad_ and _tragic_ ring so brightly without them here.

**

Liam has loved Louis since they were five years old.  Louis with his lengthy fringe and glow in the dark blue eyes and curvy smile and _loud, loud, louder_ since the day they met.  Louis with his affection for all things football and stupid comedies and pranks that would always leave Liam in trouble but grinning like an idiot afterwards.  The same Louis who is addicted to hot cups of tea doused in sugar and cream and the one that cuddles to Liam when everything is dark and grey until Liam feels that spark beneath his skin that reminds him of the _‘mates forever’_ they swore to each other with pinkies twined and smiles bunching up their cheeks.

He’s been in love with Harry since they were eight and Harry’s smile was much too large for his face.  Those wide green eyes and large hands and that slow, dragging voice that lulled Liam when he was too lost in his own thoughts to navigate.  Harry’s smile gives him an excuse to lose himself in the pull of gravity and his ramblings about Jimi Hendrix and Paul McCartney allows Liam to muse about his own wide brown eyes and goofy smile and the way he’s just now starting to fit into his own skin, even if the rest of the world barely notices him next to Harry and Louis.  Harry’s affinity for scarves and tight jeans and alternative music, a slow turn from being a little nerdy to something of a hipster that every girl adored – and quite a few lads too.  With that one dimple and cherry pink lips and an insane thirst for knowledge and _world class_.  That same Harry Styles who tugged Liam close at the edge of eighteen and promised to _‘always be your star amongst the sea’_ just before piling all of his luggage into his mum’s car and driving off to University.

He’s been enamored with Niall and his haunting laugh and neon blue eyes since he was thirteen.  He can imitate Niall’s accent in his sleep and he loves the way the sun reflects off of his pale skin rather than embedding itself into his flesh like it did with Louis and Harry.  Niall radiates life and excitement and Liam finds it so hard to swallow the fact that Niall is still so new to their little circle.  He’s a swallow of fresh breath after being cocooned in a pile of blankets and a surge of something fiery in his heart – fierce, incredibly loyal, the kind of dedication scripted into one of those brilliant films he loves about solidarity and commitment.  He’s electric like Louis, cheeky like Harry, and the shift in Liam’s bones that reminds him he’ll always belong to something.

They only ever see each other now, at this time of year, because Louis spends his summers training football and Harry’s always travelling another piece of the globe and Niall crashes in Mullingar from June to August for _‘home away from home, bro, ‘cause I_ earned _it’_ but, in those few weeks of December, it feels like nothing’s ever changed.  It feels like time stands still and the last two years of his life weren’t lost to University and classes and his mates leaving him behind.

Or waiting.  Or just moving on because that’s what you do when you get older – _you move on_.

But hope catches flight on the stutter of his heartbeat with anticipation.  The world stops for just a few weeks and they always end one year half-drunk on memories and childhood and start another one arm-in-arm like brothers with silly smiles, mostly drunk on shoddy alcohol and liberation, and the promise of one thing: always being each other’s _carpe diem_.

**

As cliché as it sounds, Liam knows this pub like clockwork.

He has since he was six years old, curled underneath his father’s desk with a pile of thick afghans, a flashlight, and a copy of _Avengers: The Crossing_ while his mum waited on tables and his father manned the bar.  He knows the early morning _‘quiet hour’_ where only a few patrons come in for a quick lager and _‘tea talk’_ before rushing off to work.  He’s watched his sisters manage the afternoon shifts between Uni classes and boyfriends while he mopped the stalls and pretended to take interest in the trivial conversations presented by sweet old Mr. Grimshaw – whose son was always a bit of a prick to Louis but Harry always got on with.  He traded shifts with Martin between boxing classes during secondary school, mindless chats behind the pub about bullies and _‘your right hook is your strong point, Payner, you’ve got to lead with the left though.’_

He’s traded off opening and closing the pub with his father and his business partner Mr. Higgins – _Paul_ , who’s humble and kind but stands tall with wide shoulders and the kind of expression to forces you into a corner if you cross him – since he was seventeen.  It felt like tradition – and tasted like _obedience_ and _requirement_ , razor-sharp down his throat – to follow in his father’s footsteps because this pub was all his family’s had, besides the bakery which brought in a few hundred quid but not enough for three children and an old house.

“University is for chaps who’ve forgotten what makes a _real_ man is hard work and dedication,” his father told him sternly when he was sixteen and on the verge of A-Levels and the proverbial _edge of seventeen_ Stevie Nicks once promised.  “You want to do something important with your life?  Be good to your mum, quit dreaming, and start a family of your own based on the blood and sweat you put into something your family built.”

It’s not that Liam’s father has ever been, you know, _cold_ – no, that’s not how Liam would describe it.

 _Focused_ , he thinks.  Dedicated to being everything his father own was, his grandfather too.

He raised Liam to be _strong_ – a word Liam associates with bruised knuckles, swollen cheeks, fighting off kids twice his size for making fun of him or his family or the way his mum could never afford those fancy clothes from Topman or trips to Knightsbridge for a round at Harrod’s.  Liam was too respectful to argue the significance of University and studies and dreams.

Liam wonders if dreams were something Liam’s father lost somewhere between Ruth being born and the shift in economy.

Still, he knows this place better than he knows the thick beats of his own heart.

The mornings are almost always slow – except the few days before Christmas where the whole city wants to get pissed on ale and his mum’s pastries because _‘bah humbug Chris Cringle,’_ no one likes the rush of Christmas shopping – and quiet moments with his feet propped up at that table in the corner, flipping through a few comics while Jade hums along to the jukebox, until just after three when things start to really pick up.

Andy and Maz usually file in just before five, loud and obnoxiously gleeful after a day working at the factory Liam’s spent a few summers taking a shift or two at.  They order up pint after pint, telling exaggerated stories about their ‘conquests’ – and really, Liam only pays them half a mind because he knows Andy’s been madly in love with Eleanor Calder since they were eight and Maz has fancied Jade since sixteen and that silly sweethearts dance they had at school – with a few birds down at the diner near the heart of the city.  He can’t help but love them because they’ve been his orbit since they were all kids – before Louis’ bright eyes and Harry’s dragging stories and Niall’s thick accent, his barreling laugh.

They’re his mates, his anchor to this city and the life he knows he’ll forever be bound to.

The sun sits thick in the sky just after five like a navel orange, streaking the pub a soft, warm color and coating the walls in a honey-hue like sweet liquor.  It chases the clouds just before the usual after-work rush sets in, a parade of the same patrons Liam’s seen since he was sixteen – Amelia and her adoration for sugary martinis, quiet Aiden with his newspaper and rounds of Absinthe, Phoebe and Jesy, who beg for Jade’s cooking and glass after glass of red wine, Max and his ever-changing ‘girlfriend’ and shots of tequila, Mr. Walsh who takes an hour break from the bookstore for tarts and whiskey over a bed of ice.  He’s filled most of their orders before they ever find a seat amongst the flow of newcomers, his father’s mates, some of the visiting University kids who know him by face but call him _‘Lionel’_ or _‘Leon’_ or _‘that Payne kid, you know, Ruth and Nicola’s little twit of a brother.’_

He smiles politely at each of them, a trick he learned from his mum years ago when she was pretending her marriage was still alive and breathing when they both knew his father was more in love with keeping the pub afloat rather than remembering the meaning of _romance_ and _‘intimacy, it’s called_ sex _my boy,’_ Louis once told him over bottles of London Porter.

It’s easy to distract himself through the flickering crowd inside of the pub, wiping down the bar and filling glass after glass and put on smiles for people who barely know _him_ ; just _Geoff Payne’s son_.  He filters chats with Andy and Maz and casual flirting from a nearly-pissed Phoebe with the vibrating phone in his back pocket; all texts from Louis that scream louder and louder – the _‘I hate u! U are a dick!’_ to the _‘reckon you will meet me @ the train station???’_ before the _‘I expct a pint & kisses & marriage proposals when I arrve’ _until it’s just _‘I still hate u payner!’_ and _‘but I luv u & cant weight to see u ;)’_ – and Liam can’t shove the grin on his lips off.

He thinks it’s half-written in coincidence when Queen rattles through that old jukebox – _I want to break free. I want to break free from your lies, you’re so self-satisfied. I don’t need you_ – and the pub door swings open just before six when the sky is sliding, shifting into a rush of pink and purple and spinning flakes of snow.

There’s a tug at his lips, just at the corners, and Louis Tomlinson has always been thunder, the center of a tidal wave, the pulse of something riotous, chaos embodied.  He’s blaring rock music, heavy guitars, sparks like a live wire that flutters Liam’s heart and stains his cheeks with the kind of embarrassment you associate with your best mate – you know, the one that you’re almost always apologizing for.

“A legend has returned,” he declares with blue eyes like a galaxy of stars, that curvy smile that’s something like Satan in human form.

A few eyes cautiously watch him standing in the archway for half a second before cheers echo off the wood walls and Louis’ drug into a hug from Max that lifts him off his feet.  Louis claps a hand to the nape of Max’s neck when he’s lowered to the ground again, foreheads pressed together like it’s been _decades_ rather than months since they last smiled at each other like this.  Glasses of lager and bitter ale are raised as Louis pushes through the rush of embraces and kisses to the cheek and _‘fuck, Tomlinson, stay for good this time.’_

Liam smiles from behind the bar, arms folded over his chest with a soiled rag hanging off his shoulder.  His lips twitch, the drum of his heart heavy as Louis dances around circular tables, climbs chairs, and hops onto the bar.  He tastes like fresh air, bleeds like sap from a tree, rushes his skin like the winter ache outside.

“Leemo,” Louis sighs, lips swirled with a grin, cheeks a faded pink from the cold.  He breathes out _‘Payner’_ while reaching across the divide to rest a hand on Liam’s shoulder, tugging him forward.

Liam lets Louis swallow him in a clumsy hug, wet kisses to his round cheeks.  Louis smells like acidic after shave and pine needles and posh cologne that Liam will never afford.  His hair is longer, thicker in the back.  There’s rough scruff lining his mouth and jaw, his skin still that honeysuckle color.  Liam drags fingers through his hair, dusting off the melting flakes of snow and cupping the back of his skull.  He eats a mouthful of Louis’ scarf, giggles at Louis’ cold fingers tickling up the side of his neck, a thumb pressed to Liam’s birthmark.

Their noses brush, Liam biting on half of his smile with white teeth while Louis’ smirk spreads like the stretch of an ocean.  He keeps their foreheads together and they trade little looks like toddlers, curious and observant and fascinated.  His spare fingers work over the thickness of Louis’ jumper, stealing little touches to feel the definition created by Louis’ rigorous footie training before smirking.

“Finally getting _fit_ , yeah?” he teases, ignoring the way Louis’ flicks his ear to bite down a little firmer on his own smile.

“Finally looking like a _man_ , I see,” Louis scoffs, nudging Liam’s shoulder until they separate just a little.

Liam snorts, thumping a fist on Louis’ shoulder.  “I had hair on my face before you had your first stiffy, mate.”

Louis rolls his eyes, smacking Liam’s shoulder in retaliation.  “And other places, ‘m sure.”

There’s a kick of blush pressed to Liam’s cheeks and he shoves Louis’ a little rougher until he hops off the bar and settles into the free stool in front of Liam.

Louis is the quiet definition – no, nothing about Louis’ is _quiet_ – of endearing, admiring.  He rests his chin on his knuckles, still smiling sharply but he looks at Liam like a hero.  It pushes the weight off of Liam’s shoulders, makes him feel dizzy and weightless and things he’ll never quite put a finger to.

And Louis’ never asked to be something of a leader or a firestarter – it just comes naturally, something Liam sort of envies.  The way Louis simmers in charm and unavoidable danger with an arch of an eyebrow and a silver tongue.  He’s a pulsing light bulb to this city – drawing in glimmering fireflies and moths to the flame.

“Still drinking vodka and ginger ale?” Liam inquires, already filling a rock glass with ice and melting it away with a lenient pour of Three Olives.  He chews the corner of his lip, watching Louis with careful eyes – the lift of his shoulders under his bomber jacket, his Ray Bans hanging off the collar of his jumper, the edges of his face still so young even with the stubble.

“Only if it’s on your tab,” Louis says with a smirk, leaning in to snatch away the glass before Liam adds too much ginger ale.  He winks at Liam, yanking out the cocktail straws Liam’s added and tossing them into the bin behind the bar.

Liam laughs quietly, reaching out to thread his fingers through that thick fringe.  Louis hasn’t paid for a drink at the pub since they were sixteen and Nicola would sneak them mugs of Newcastle Brown.  Paul never says anything about it and Liam thinks, from a distance, Geoff actually _likes_ Louis more than he _tolerates_ him.

Louis downs half of the drink in one swallow, grinning like a maniac before blindly pressing his fingers to the pulse on the inside of Liam’s wrist.

“Missed you bro,” Louis says low and sincerely, tipping his chin downward to hide the traces of pink on his cheeks that aren’t from the cold outside.

Liam snorts, nodding.  “You too, mate.”

“Well look at what the fucking tide finally brought home.  About time Tommo,” Andy says, loud and the stiffness of his voice is palpable.  He tosses an arm around Louis’ shoulders, knocking into the stool next to him with Maz squaring in Louis’ right side.

Louis rolls his eyes instantly, finishing the other half of his drink before shoving the empty glass in Liam’s direction for a refill.

“Samuels, you fucking tosser,” Louis says evenly with a smile, nudging Andy’s side with his hip.  “How’s this city treating a twat like yourself?”

Andy laughs roughly, tightening his pull on Louis’ shoulders.  “About as good as your bird’s mouth is on my cock.”

Louis arches an eyebrow, his smile lifting sideways.  “So… still a virgin then?”

Maz chokes on his beer, Andy’s face scrunching, and Liam hides his own grin behind his knuckles before pouring up another drink for Louis.

“Still a _dick_ , I see.”

“Hey,” Louis chuckles, reaching up to pinch one of Andy’s cheeks, “least I still have use for mine, yeah?”

Liam slides Louis’ drink across the worn counter, rapping his knuckles on the bar to Freddie Mercury – _God knows, gotta make it on my own. So baby can’t you see? I’ve got to break free_ – before reaching out to rest a calming hand on Andy’s shoulder.

“Andy made supervisor down at the airplane factory,” Liam inserts, a smooth smile for Andy when he drags his peering eyes from Louis.

Louis lifts his brow, grinning widely and _danger, Will Robinson, danger_ echoes through Liam’s ear.

“Really?  Quite an accomplishment,” Louis says, his voice that thin slide between mocking and silent interest.  “Looks like life here isn’t so bad, then.”

Andy huffs out a response, peeling his arm from Louis’ shoulders before steadying himself onto the empty stool.

“Fucking right,” he mumbles and Liam leans back, a pleading smile aimed at Louis that drags away some of the spite in his smirk before he’s nodding, sipping at his drink – tossing the straws once more – instead of reminding Andy – Liam too – that this world is so much bigger than this city.

This _life_ is so much bigger than this city.

**

There’s a small collection of schoolmates crowding the pub just after seven, most of them circling Louis as he goes on about University, Chelsea and Newcastle and the streets of London.  Liam leans behind the bar with a soft smile, catching looks from Louis that are fond and bright, nothing like that inky dark sky outside that’s a cascade of early stars and white flurries and the sun slanting toward the sea.

Louis chats about football with Maz tucked into his side, Max blanketing his back, and Andy slumped to his left.  Amelia hangs off his shoulder as he goes on about girls in London and parties off campus.  Liam fills glass after glass, shy fingers pushing a new drink into Louis’ hand between chats and Louis could always hold his own when it came to liquor, unlike Harry and Niall.

“Maybe you could come up in the spring.  Just for the start of the season, maybe a weekend,” Louis offers when it’s just the two of them for a second.

Liam smiles softly, licking at raw-bitten lips.  He flicks his eyes over Andy and Maz at the pool table, outdone in a game of two-on-one by Ashton before dragging his eyes over Phoebe and Jesy dancing in the corner next to the jukebox with dizzy eyes.  He watches Aiden fold up his newspaper for another glass of Absinthe while Mr. Walsh toasts Paul to another start to the holiday season.

This place, this city – _his home_.

“Maybe,” Liam whispers, dragging the pad of his thumb along the stubble lining his jaw.

Louis grins, nodding.  Neither of them say how they _won’t_ and Liam _can’t_ and the in-between January and December always feels so endless.

“One more, yeah,” Louis chimes, the corners of his mouth soft and fuzzy, and Liam laughs out something rough when Louis holds up two fingers instead of one.

“You donut,” Liam breathes out between gasps of air, snatching away his glass but not before reaching out to feel the stiff texture of Louis’ product-soaked hair, knocking fringe out of his lashes.  “You’re going to sink my family’s business.”

Louis arches a sharp eyebrow, feigns a wounded look before snorting.  “This ship will sail on, you nob.  Now fill me cup.”

And Liam does with sparks of happiness trapped in his lungs and a dusting of something wicked crawling up his skin.

 _Carpe diem_ , he thinks, the start of his heart ignited by Louis’ lazy smile.

**

Louis’ nearly three sips into his fifth – no, _seventh_ glass, even if Louis argues otherwise – and somewhere between David Bowie and the Beatles on the jukebox when _she_ walks in.

Liam will never deny that Eleanor is something he’s awed over for years.  She walks like glam rock and a certain hint of Paris, Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week, tender lips to match her carved out cheeks.  She’s loose brown hair falling over her shoulders, half-tousled, and doe eyes that always shine sweet and calm.  There’s a velvet pink hue to her cheeks from the cold, big sunglasses pulled from her face the second she walks in.  Even under her long trench coat, he can see peeks of a little black dress and her scarf hangs loose like it’s just a distraction from her fair skin and _tease_ , he thinks with a subtle grin.

“Fucking hell,” Louis gasps around the lip of his glass, bits of alcohol dribbling off his chin rather than catching on his tongue.

Eleanor smiles and everything goes London hazy for a moment as she inches around former classmates, right up to Paul who drags her into one of those giant hugs he reserves for people like Nicola and Ruth, sometimes Niall because, of all of them, Paul has a soft spot for Niall especially.  She laughs into his shoulder, her face scrunching from the press of his arms before slinking behind the bar.

“You didn’t ring me last night when I got in,” she teases, presses a glossy kiss to Liam’s cheek, just above the speckled blush ravaging his skin.

He eases an arm around her waist, hauling her in and the tickle of her laugh under his jaw feels like primary school and sharing juice boxes.

“You didn’t visit when you came home from London for that week in August,” Liam sighs, fingers mapping out her slender waist.

“I was visiting my sick mummy, you arse,” she laughs out and they stutter into giggles that heat Liam’s lungs like shots of rum on a sticky summer afternoon.

“Was my birthday,” Liam reminds her with no malice.

Eleanor rolls her eyes, slender fingers pinching his cheeks and he feels _escape_ behind these sort of touches.

“I sent a card,” Eleanor huffs, sliding out of her coat and draping it on the other end of the bar, “and flowers.”

Liam snorts, nodding.  He hip checks her back when she coils in for another hug, jerking his head toward Louis.  “More than this tosser did.”

Louis whines, stirring the ice in his glass with his forefinger.  “I sent a _text_ ,” he moans, winking at Eleanor and something crashes between them like a cloud of lightning over the dark sea.

Eleanor shifts her fingers over the wood of the bar and his meet hers at the halfway, curling around each other.  It feels like sixteen and that summer where they gave it a go at romance and snogging behind the bleachers before footie practice.  Liam’s not certain they ever got past that – the wonder in Louis’ eyes, the strain of Eleanor’s lips when she smiles, the way they always look weak around each other – but he doesn’t ask about things like that.

Eleanor’s studying fashion and journalism somewhere in London and Louis’ too far north now to learn the definition of _long distance relationships_ or phone sex.

“Always were a prick, weren’t you Tommo,” she teases, low and plucked strings of affection in her voice.

Louis leans in, chewing the edge of his lip, free fingers finally capturing the rest of hers.  “Still a bit heartbroken over me El?”

She blinks out a smile that’s warm like sunlight, fresh like mountain air.

“Fuck off,” she sneers, fingers still re-learning the scars on his knuckles and the untouched skin.  “We both know I left you for better things.”

Louis shrieks with laughter, shaking his head until the thick inches of fringe sweep over his forehead rather than his eyes.

“Bullshit Calder.  Shall we ask your mummy who cried in bed for weeks during first term?”

Eleanor gasps and the corners of her mouth curl so genuinely like this – this space, this touch, this _everything_ has been missing for too long.

“I hope the next lad that sucks your dick forgets to cover his teeth,” she hisses with a grin that rivals his in definition and size.

Louis falls back onto his stool with an echoing laugh that roars louder than Katy Perry – _And on my eighteenth birthday, we got matching tattoos_.  He tips back the rest of his drink, dizzy and happy and Eleanor curls back into Liam’s side until it feels like seventeen again – the three of them like an inescapable triangle of oxygen, _us against the world_.

They waste away on bottles of root beer and peanuts while Eleanor catches them up on school and Big Ben and a week abroad in Spain.  She toasts Louis’ football record, promises to drag Liam to a few games this coming term and Liam sits back shyly with wide eyes and teeth ruining his bottom lip.

“Still having a do for Christmas?” Louis asks around frosted glasses of Coke and a basket of chips Jade dropped off.

Eleanor nods quickly, smiling.  “Over at Cowell’s inn this year.  It’s going to be smashing, I swear.”

“Oh fuck off, it always is,” Louis snickers, smacking away Liam’s hand when he reaches for a few chips.

“Annual birthday party?” Eleanor wonders, sneaking Liam a few chips and she giggles when he grins shocked and bright.

“At Haz’s stepdad’s bungalow this year,” Louis smiles out.

Eleanor pushes up an eyebrow, curious.  She hums quietly, crossing her legs on the stool Andy’s long abandoned next to Louis – and Liam catches the way Andy keeps smiling at her from across the pub, hints of something fond and longing that he can’t hide from Liam.

“And that thing with Styles is – “

Louis chokes out an aborted sound at the back of his throat, Liam’s brow lifting on instinct and Eleanor tips her chin downward to hide a secret smile.  She taps fingers across Louis’ knuckles and Liam watches the way Louis’ shoulders go tense, the strain of tendons in his stretched out neck so apparent.

“What?”

Louis huffs, Eleanor giggling, and he hates that they’ve always been brilliant at Morse code – little secrets he’ll never understand but won’t spend much time contemplating.

“New ink,” Louis remarks in a fumbled attempt to change the subject and his fingers rub absently at Liam’s forearm until Liam falls into the distraction, explaining the significance of arrows and these three boys and this city expands for the swell of his heart at Louis’ affectionate glow and the way Eleanor leans in like she could listen to Liam for hours.

He doesn’t mind: the way Eleanor and Louis still curl around each other for laughs about Liam’s dodgy haircuts or the way Eleanor asks him to be her date to the Christmas party rather than Louis.  They slide into a mockery of childhood with stolen glances and a river of _yes, yes, yes_ filling his blood because they fit so natural.

And _regret_ dissipates like unused oxygen until all he remembers is these two warm bodies and a graceless amount of memories.

**

They’re bottles of Ruddle County – and Eleanor has always been better at ale and bitters than Louis, something she freely brags about – and clattered laughter when Niall sweeps into the pub just before eight.  He’s shaking snow off of his coat, peeling off his gloves when the three of them engulf him in the doorway.  Liam drags his fingers through bleached hair that’s four shades of blonde and Niall’s cheeks are a frosted pink that reminds Liam of summers in the sun and chasing a football up that stretch of grass in Wellington.

Niall presses cold lips to his chin and Liam’s eyes crinkle with that certain kind of unavoidable adoration that’s always been attached to _Niall Horan_.  He tangles his fingers into the thick fabric of Niall’s sweater, his skin waking with exhilaration when Niall pulls back to swallow Louis in a hug that’s all brotherly and long.

He eyes Niall when they draw back, the way his arm is still curled around Eleanor’s waist, fingers still learning her definition again.  He’s a pile of intoxicated laughs, stuttered breaths, and Liam knows this face – he’s seen it a dozen or more times whenever Niall’s truly enamored.  Not that Niall is anything like Louis or Andy – hopeless for Eleanor in wide awake, thunder-loud ways – but there’s something like a childhood crush etched into his features like he’s never gotten over that time he and Eleanor snogged when they were fifteen or the slow dance Eleanor begged off of him when Louis ignored her for hours at a dance.

The moon hangs a little higher in that heavy sky drenched in purples and mauve as Niall piles his coat and beanie with Louis’ and Eleanor’s, knocking Louis off his stool to sit next to Eleanor while Liam slips behind the bar to pour them up chilled shots of rum and this feels easy like mornings during the wake of autumn.  It scatters across his senses like leaves of gold and amber and red, forces him to swallow two shots to their one just to edge off some of that glow at the center of his heart.

“Horan, you are nothing but a mystery,” Louis teases with careful fingers buried in Niall’s hair and Niall’s arm hung loose around Eleanor’s shoulders.  “You practically disappear during the school year.”

Niall huffs out a gravelly laugh between sips of rum and mugs of Abbot Reserve, leaning his head sideways to take in Louis.  He’s oceanic blue eyes and the kind of lopsided smile that’s more endearing than goofy.

“’m not, you fuck,” Niall laughs out, leaning into Louis’ fingers.  “I blog all of the time.”

Louis clicks his tongue against his teeth, rolling his eyes.  “What the fuck is _that_?  I use Tumblr for free _porn_ , nothing else, bro.  I refuse to follow you or let you become an icon on my mobile screen as some form of friendship, mate.”

“Says the boy who retweets all of Harry Styles tweets,” Niall teases underneath a breath and Liam barely catches the hint of scarlet that burns Louis’ cheeks before Louis’ pinching Niall’s side, drawing up stammering giggles that Niall can’t fight.

“Shut it, you fuckbag,” Louis hisses, knocking his knee against Niall’s beneath the bar.

“Fuckbag?”

Louis nods, smirking wildly.  “A severe case of douchebag.”

Liam snorts behind his knuckles and Niall groans, falling against Eleanor with laughter.

“Tommo, you are quite _sick_.”

“And mad,” Eleanor adds, stealing away Niall’s beer.  “You’re a pup that should’ve been put down years ago.”

“And you lot love me,” Louis interjects with the kind of smile Liam will never get over.

None of them argue that and they trade glasses of beer and rum between the four of them like there’s a science to how they work.  They’re stars chasing each other across a dark, dark sky and Liam can’t see past their smiles or the way they light him up inside.

**

If Niall is warmth and Louis is the echo of thunder, Harry Styles is the sea just before a hurricane – oddly entrancing with flickers of something intoxicating, the shift of waves under a charcoal sky.

Liam remembers thinking in colors once and Harry is that odd space between denim and electric crimson; he could never decide.

He slides into the pub just after nine when the snow’s really coming down – a whirl of satin white and the sky turning darker, darker still with a silver moon lost in the clouds – with the kind of smile that’s louder than Louis’ words or Niall’s laugh.  Those thick curls are stuffed under a ratty olive-shaded beanie and his eyes are a touch brighter – _mint-gold_ , he thinks – when he spots them across the tables and crowd of people.

“Styles!” Niall barks out before Liam can form words, loose lips establishing a grin when Niall charges across the room to bury himself in Harry’s arms.

Niall loses himself in Harry’s scarf and mittens and hides his nose against the exposed collar barely hidden by Harry’s thin t-shirt.  He shakes with the way Harry whispers _‘Nialler’_ and they’re a collision of waging waters and tossing ships in the night.  Harry’s ruffles that already soft-undone hair on Niall’s head, lips to his temple with wide eyes tracing over the rest of them from the distance.  He echoes love and _too long, mates, we can’t keep doing this_ until Liam’s heart rattles against his ribs and his fingers go a quiet numb.

“Quit telling the world how much you love me on your blog,” Harry teases, tugging a little at Niall’s head until they’re apart but still so close.  “It’s almost like you’re blowing me across the digital network.”

Niall blushes furiously, punching Harry’s side before yanking him in again.  “You wish you had these lips on your dick.”

“Might be worth a try, one day,” Harry laughs out, securing a strong arm around Niall’s back.  “But then won’t everyone else be jealous?”

Niall shrugs halfheartedly, sighing into Harry’s chest, pulling at his coat until it slips from Harry’s shoulders.  They’re a hum of Jimi Hendrix and quiet touches like unplugged rhythm for seconds, all laughter and shivering bodies.

“Doubt it,” Niall huffs, sliding cautious fingers up Harry’s neck, glancing over his shoulder at something Liam can’t pick out.  “Well, maybe some.”

Liam stutters on a breath when Louis hiccups out an exhale and Eleanor giggles into her hand like _secrets, Niall, we must keep them_.  It rattles Liam for a moment and he slides his fingers over the condensation of his glass rather than remind them that he’s still here.

He’s always _here_ – in this city, in this place, in his solitude.

“Still fumbling your way through British studies and Hogwarts at Uni, mate,” Harry half-teases, tossing an arm around Niall’s slightly smaller shoulders.

“Still travelling Europe on some fictional life quest, bro?” Niall shoots back and they eye each other like _rivals_ but their lips say _equals_.

“Visited Madrid recently,” Harry notes, rocking into Niall before jostling him with his hip.  “Venice for my birthday next term.”

Niall nods along, smiling in waves and radio frequencies that no one else in the pub gets but Liam does.  Ever since they were fourteen and Harry and Niall found solidarity in each other in ways Harry couldn’t get with Liam – not with their endless discussions of music and films – or with Louis – the loud friction of endless stares and untouched thoughts and the way they’ve developed their own silent way of expressing gratitude under the skyline.

Harry leans in, lips to Niall’s ear but Liam can still read the curve of them when he whispers, “And I see you still haven’t gotten on with Eleanor yet?  Not even a drunken shag?”

Niall chokes on a gasp and Harry’s a mocking laugh when he pulls back, ruffling Niall’s hair again.  It’s the kind of silent victory they both fight for, always have, until one gives in and they’re smiling like _surrender, surrender_ means something these days.

It’s that in-between space that exists in the middle of Harry’s laugh and the rough clearing of a throat that Liam notices the other boy shadowing behind Harry.  And he hates words like _mesmerizing_ or _infatuated_ because they feel so adolescent but he thinks in that context when Harry and Niall part for the boy to step in between with –

Liam’s mind is too clouded with pub smoke and greasy food to find the word that’ll sit perfectly on his tongue but he thinks, on another day, he could find it.

The boy is dark, dark hair that’s sleeked up into a spiky quiff.  He’s long eyelashes that sweep shadows over sharp cheeks and even darker stubble burying his jaw and chin.  He’s eyes like that stolen moment in the sky between sun and moon, melted honey over anchoring brown that Liam loses himself in.  His frame is a bit wiry, even underneath the leather jacket and the collar of his shirt is stretched out to expose foreign language – _Arabic_ , Liam thinks, not that he _knows_ – scrawled across a collarbone that looks meant for lips and tongue.  He’s got teeth pinching the skin off of his lip, fingers flexing and curling at his sides and his dark jeans are ripped at the knees like this kid is somewhere blurred between hip hop and grunge rock.

He thinks, no, _dreams_ in a fuzzy pattern of snow and that _lost at sea_ feeling for a breath – or six – while the boy scratches at his stubble and looks just as on edge as Liam’s heart feels.  And there’s no warning, the way Liam’s heart speeds up or the drop of his stomach or the prickle over his skin like he remembers that needle being when he first marked his skin.

It’s the way _infatuation_ sits on his tongue, curled around _I’ll never forget this face_ that has him looking away before their eyes make contact but the blistering burn of blush on his cheeks reminds him so loudly.

“This is Zayn,” Harry says quickly, sliding that arm that hung around Niall’s shoulders over Zayn’s before adding, “He’s my roommate back at Uni.  Thought I’d invite him down for the holidays because – “

Zayn clears his throat again, ducking his head and there’s something intensely shy about the drag of his boot on the floor or the way his fingers keeping playing at his sides.

Harry nods, swallowing.  “Thought maybe he’d like to see what my home is like.”

“Your home is a suitcase and passports, Haz,” Louis calls out and there’s a rumble of laughter, mumbled accord that leaves Harry sighing and Zayn chuckling, a raspy sound that Liam catalogues next to _do you take thee to be your loftily-wedded_ –

 _No_.

He doesn’t know this boy or his pink lips or flicker-flame eyes or the way his stubble would probably drag so impatiently against Liam’s thighs if he was on his knees and –

Liam slumps over the bar a little and pretends the water spots on the wood are far more interesting than the tattoos he thinks Zayn’s hiding underneath that jacket and shirt.

His eyes flick up at the sound of Harry’s heavy boots over hardwood – and it’s just slightly louder than Mick Jagger on the jukebox or the rough cadence of his heart against his chest – and watches Harry offer Zayn up a stool at the bar while Niall follows lazily with a floppy smile that screams _fond_ and _Harry Styles, I adore you and hate you too_.  He sucks in a sharp breath that he mutes with a constricted throat and he’s trying not to look side-eyed at Zayn or the hint of wings inked onto his chest or the suggestion of uncertainty circling his shoulders and lips.

“Malik here is studying Fine Art and intellectually brilliant things I can’t describe,” Harry announces like a badge of honor, cupping Zayn’s shoulders from behind and Zayn’s shaky with his smile, ducking his head to avoid the dozens of eyes staring at him because he’s _new_ and _foreign_ and nothing like anything else in this city.

“And does Tony Starks come with any other gadgets?” Louis teases, steadying himself against Eleanor and they’re all crowded against the bar but it feels like _peace of mind_ under the blunt shine of the overhead lights.

Harry smiles while Zayn rests his palms over the wood of the bar, leaning toward Liam rather than the collection of reverie that’s circling him.

“Missed me yet?” Harry asks, his tongue sliding decidedly slow over his lips as he looks at Louis.

Louis snorts, lifting his shoulders a little.  “Hardly.”

“Liar,” Harry says, quiet and sharp, leaning toward Louis.

There’s a pause between the hum of music and the laughter in the bar and the echo of Liam’s heart in his ears where he almost misses it.  The way Louis’ lashes flutter over his cheeks, the achingly brilliant curve of Harry’s smile, the long fingers that rest on the nape of Louis’ neck, the way both of their faces flush just before Harry’s lips slide slowly over Louis’.  It’s a hush and Harry’s so skillful in the way his mouth floats over Louis’ – like this is practiced, like this isn’t a _first_ or a _second_ – and Louis’ fingers tangle in Harry’s shirt through deep breaths that wade on shock and that warm feeling on a Christmas morning.

It’s on the crest of something far from obscene – Harry’s touch far too gentle, Louis’ hesitance losing the battle with ambivalence – before Harry’s grinning and drawing back, fingertips still pressed into the skin of Louis’ neck.

“Fucking hell,” Niall breathes out, mouth gaped with large eyes.

Louis sits silent, lips red and a little swollen.  “Well, that’s new.”

Harry giggles, Eleanor smirking like _bullshit_ and other words she’ll probably whisper to Liam later when they’re not all half-drunk on misinterpreted messages.

There’s a slight lift of Harry’s shoulders before he’s turning to Niall, losing himself in a chat about global studies and the color of the Atlantic and dreams of sandy shores.  Louis’ slumping back against Eleanor’s smaller frame like she can support him and Liam’s swallowing around the lump in his throat, studying each of them before distraction plays a wicked card and he’s admiring Zayn.

Spidery shadows cascade against defined cheeks by long, thick eyelashes.  Teeth pull a little too unkindly on a bottom lip and, when Zayn stretches to shrug out of his leather jacket, there’s a landscape of colors and ink and artwork across one of his forearms that’s something like a diversion from the smoothness of his skin or the way the curve of his muscles are knit so perfectly beneath the flesh.  There’s a pulse – heavy, nearly robotic – against his chest and Liam traces his eyes over the wings, the full red lips stained beneath Zayn’s collarbone before losing his breath on the way Zayn’s mouth curls to smirk when Harry says something distinctively funny – if any of Harry’s jokes could ever be considered funny rather than droll.

“Payno,” Harry calls out with an arm collapsed around Niall’s shoulders, a chin hooked across one of Louis’ and snapping fingers to draw Liam’s attention.  “A round of your cheapest tequila for me and the Zayner, if you will.”

Liam scrunches his face with as little disdain as he can manage before he catches the way Harry’s eyes fall on Louis: a predator in full attack mode.

“And something sweet for this beautiful chap,” Harry adds, green eyes meeting curious blues for a half a second.

Niall chokes on a swallow of Eleanor’s beer, Zayn’s brow lifted with worry lines creasing his skin.

“Oh fuck off and get me a pint of Fuller’s,” Louis scoffs, knocking Harry off of his shoulder with a scowl but the lights do little to hide the small smile and stretch of blush that appears seconds later.

Liam busies himself with filling glasses, topping off Eleanor’s next beer before she can order it, and averting his eyes from the endless black ink scribed across Zayn’s arm.  He falters for a second, tracing the chord that wraps around his forearm, the thin base of the microphone, the splattered ink jutting from the inside of his wrist.

“Oi, this place hasn’t changed much, yeah?” Louis hums, leaning on the bar with his chin on his knuckles.

Liam startles a little, sloshes some of the tequila across the bar and his cheeks burn a painful color when Zayn’s eyes fall on him.  His shoulders tense, fingers shaking as he reaches for the limes and he feels completely daft when he slides the drinks across the bar, sinking slowly under the weight of Zayn’s gaze.

“Not since we were kids,” Eleanor chimes, helpless with her laughter when Niall tickles nervous fingers over her bare knee.

“’s not a bad thing, right?” Niall wonders, cheeks already pink before Eleanor teasingly slaps his hand away.

Louis snorts, shoulders lifting and falling quickly.  “Guess not.”

“I like it,” Zayn says, his voice a sweet mixture of smoke and Yorkshire, Liam thinks it has to be northern with the thick curl of his tongue around each word.  “Small towns are pretty sick.  They always surprise you with all of the little things you miss the first go ‘round, yeah?  Makes you feel at home but a bit like a stranger.”

Louis whines, eyes rolling.  “Not at all, mate.  It’s always the fucking same.”

“Never changes,” Harry hisses after downing the first shot, eyes pinched shut before he lets out a howl and thumps a fist on the bar.  “Christ, Payno, that’s _shit_.”

Liam shrugs with a grin, wiping down the counters again.  “You said cheapest.”

“Fucking petrol fluid,” Harry mumbles, reaching for his second shot as Zayn eyes his first.

Liam follows the pink tongue that brushes so gently over Zayn’s lips, the shine it leaves behind so intoxicating.  He tries not to imagine adding the rough curl of his own tongue, the slow drag of his thumb across those lips but, fuck, he can’t help it.

This boy is incredibly hypnotic in ways Liam’s not quite comfortable with.

He follows the thumb and forefinger pinching the shot glass, the way Zayn tips his head back and something crawls under his skin at the thought of sketching the tip of his tongue over that long column, across that Adam’s apple, marking hidden patches of skin with his lips and teeth.  His cock twitches, fattens up when Zayn’s lips wrap around the lime, teeth sinking in until juices slide obscenely slow down his mouth, over his chin, further still.

He turns to Eleanor for, fuck, _oxygen_.  For anything but the way Zayn’s tongue plays off his lips to scoop away the remaining bitter nectar.

She’s glassy-eyed with a lazy smirk and fingers pushing her loose hair off of her face.  She winks at him like she’s in on the secret but he knows she’s not.  Eleanor might be keenly intuitive when it comes to Louis Tomlinson but she’s never been good at reading Liam.

Not that he’s ever been that, you know, open about how he feels about things.  Like when he realized, at sixteen, he was more interested in the wiry muscles and perfect anatomical structure of the men’s diving team from Great Britain rather than the endless amounts of free porn Andy would queue up on his laptop.  Or when he lied about diverting a year of University because his mum was sick – not because his parents couldn’t afford Uni or the fact that his father was the one falling ill, something he still doesn’t discuss.

Or the fact that that he hates how much he misses them.  All of them.

“Oi, this song is shit,” Louis groans over the wailing of Elton John and his never-ending adoration for _Bennie and the Jets_.  He falls half into Niall’s lap, tugging Harry closer just to shove him back like schoolyard children.

Niall snorts, reaching over Louis to nick the last of Eleanor’s half-finished beer.  “You used to love it.  You and Leemo would sing it all of the time while we helped his pops close up shop,” he reminds Louis with a mouthful of beer and an arm curled around his neck.

“Indeed,” Harry concurs, smiling affectionately into Eleanor’s shoulder like time has already healed ex-boyfriends and _he was my_ fist _Styles, back off_.

She giggles into his curls instead, leaning in to drag off-center fingers through Louis’ thick brown hair.

They’re a tangle of adolescence and listless memories and _true love_ – not the Oxford definition, of course.

There’s a quiet laugh, a little too high-pitched to be Niall’s and way too controlled to be Louis’ and Liam’s eyes drag over the bar to where Zayn’s grinning.  His expression is far from abashed or sheepish and his eyes are a dizzy honey color beneath the lights on the bar.

Liam lifts an eyebrow, sharp and curved, and Zayn swallows down his second shot before tugging a fag that’s gone unnoticed from behind his ear.  He lights it up – smooth like James Dean, calculated like fucking Leonardo DiCaprio – and his lips curl so methodically when he blows out the first drag.  He plays with the flame for a second, spare fingers tapping along to the pounding piano echoing off the walls.

Zayn lifts his shoulders in a halfhearted shrug.  “You seem like the kind of lad that’d be into this.”

Liam flattens his palms across the bar, leaning in.  He wrinkles his brow at the smoke.  He hates cigarettes and his uncle died from lung cancer and, fuck, if this boy doesn’t make smoking look so – _sexual_.

“Into what?”

Zayn smirks, lips twisting to blow the smoke away from Liam – _manners_ , Liam thinks without a smile though he can feel it tugging at his mouth.  He misses when Zayn’s fingers skid across the worn wood, sliding between Liam’s spreads ones before quickly retreating.

“I dunno,” Zayn says, gnawing at his lip.  “Just this kind of shit.  _Easy listening_ , I think they call it that.”

“Drake,” Liam hisses, teeth clenched around every vowel.  He clears his throat, eyes narrowed.

He hates being judged.  He hates that most of his classmates thought of him as geeky for adoring comic books or that he was a complete loser to failing to make the footie team his first year of tryouts.  Or that he ran fucking _cross country_ because he was too sick to make the other teams during their seasons.  And that he didn’t finally lose the baby fat until seventeen or that he’s shit at skateboarding, never had a proper girlfriend, and yeah he was a virgin until he was eighteen but he refuses to talk about half of his mates catching him with his pants down, going down on a half-drunk Uni girl four years older than him – and fumbling around to do it all completely wrong.

But most importantly, he hates being judged.  Especially by boys who smoke, wear leather jackets, stain their skin with limitless tattoos, and know nothing about him.

“Wiz Khalifa.  Jay-Z and Kanye.  A little Bruno Mars, a lot of Justin Timberlake,” he says with uneven breaths, leaning back before folding his arms to add, “And I fancy Michael Bublé every now and again, if that answers the question you didn’t bother to ask.”

Zayn tips his head back with wide brown eyes that look awed.  His teeth catch a corner of his bottom lip, his thumb flicking the filter of his cigarette to kick off the ash on the bar before he breathes out a small cloud of gray smoke.

“ _Sick_ taste, babe,” he says, his voice a little raspy but drenched in wonderment.  “Heard the new Wayne stuff?”

Liam nods slowly and, just that quickly, his resentment flees.  It fades off like the smoke from Zayn’s slightly parted lips and he’s fascinated by this boy once more.  He’s intrigued, letting the tide lap at his toes, up his ankles when Zayn smiles with his tongue pressed firmly to white teeth.  It’s genuine and captivating like the sunset off the Pacific.  It chokes the breath from Liam’s lungs, his fingers tingling at the center.

He resigns to a coy expression, ducking his head with fingers rubbing nervously at the nape of his neck.  His lips twitch with a smirk, rocking on his heels as Zayn sucks in another breath of smoke.

The frost on the door’s window draws his attention long enough to ignore the way Harry corrals Zayn into a discussion about musical theory and courses back at Uni.  The fairy lights his mum decorated the windows in flicker cool gold and gentle ivory until he can match the pattern of blinking stars to the soft roll of Joni Mitchell’s voice over the jukebox.  He wipes down a few glasses, takes a few orders from some of the tables and hates the way he keeps glancing over his shoulder to see if maybe Zayn’s watching him.

He’s not, curled beneath Harry’s heavy arm and toying with Louis’ fringe like they’ve known each other as long as Liam has but –

The mere definition of infatuation sticks to his brain and wakes goosebumps across his skin when Zayn’s eyes flicker over him for half a second when he wipes down a few tables, a smile pushed over pink lips.

Something coils around him, an awful bold sensation once he’s back behind the bar and his hesitant fingers cross the gap that feels like galaxies before he can stop himself.  They rush over Zayn’s forearm, missing half of the ink but still managing to rest gentle against the colorful and neatly styled _ZAP!_ that sticks out over strained muscle and pulsing veins.

His tongue is heavy and he’s not even sure he’s breathing when Zayn looks up, curious and smirking, before he stammers out, “What inspired this?”

Zayn huffs out a laugh, the sound light like his smoke but – no, Liam doesn’t find many things in this world adorable but that sound?

Fuck, it’s the closest thing Liam’s ever been able to associate with such a word.

Zayn turns his arm some, the skin rolling under Liam’s fingers so naturally.  He pushes it closer to Liam, offers it up like he’s okay with Liam’s examining and _infatuation_ fits here.

It sticks and haunts and Liam won’t ever forget this feeling down the center of his chest.

“I love comics,” Zayn says, his voice a feathery smooth that Liam could never pull off.

Liam brightens immediately, fingers catching on skin, his thumb pressing firmly against the yellow ink.

Zayn adds his own fingers to the slow patterns Liam’s absently tracing, the collision beautiful.  They trip and dance around each other until Zayn’s pinky hooks with Liam’s and leads it across the _Z_ , lower until they can map out the splattered ink.

“My mates back home say its nerdy, but I’ve always been into _the Dark Knight_ and Batman and I saw _the Avengers nine times_ ,” Zayn admits, the corners of his mouth hiked up with his grin.

Liam thinks admissions like that would leave him flushed and nervous and fumbling but Zayn’s so – comfortable.  He’s far from _shy_ or _reserved_ or – Liam can’t find the word.

“Got this one as a tribute, y’know,” Zayn adds, his thumb finding Liam’s, pressing down on the nail until Liam can feel the pulse of Zayn’s heart beneath flesh and muscle and bone.  That pink tongue runs over even pinker lips again before he teases, “Can’t help it.  I like books and drawing, man.  One day I want a house so I can just muck up the walls with paint and graffiti and shit.  Just go mad, y’know?  A whole wall of like Batman and Superman.”

His smile slides a bit gracelessly over his lips, cheeks aching with the push and he draws the bat symbol over Zayn’s inner forearm.

“I love Batman,” he whispers, everything shy and soft, soft from embarrassment.  Or for _Zayn_.

Mainly, for Zayn.

“Really?” Zayn wonders and his voice is starlight bright, eyes lit up like the fairy lights.  He tilts his head some and laughs quietly.  “Didn’t take you for a Bruce Wayne.”

Liam draws his hand back, fingers dragging over Zayn’s skin.  He narrows his eyes again.  “Why not?”

Zayn shrugs, his grin widening.  “Guess I could.  Always the one you least expect, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Liam exhales out, his shoulders tightening.  His fingers feel cold against the warm wood of the bar, suddenly aching for further exploration across Zayn’s arm, over his shoulder, the hollow of his collarbone.

“I’ve got a nice collection,” Liam admits, his voice dropping like the heavy snowflakes flecking down from the wide dark sky outside.  “Just stuff I’ve collected since I was a wee boy.”

“Maybe I could come by yours and check out,” Zayn’s eyes drag slowly up and down Liam, intent etched into his eyes, “what you’ve got.”

Liam balks, shivers.  His tongue is heavy and useless and Zayn’s laughing darkly between filtered exhales of smoke.  Oxygen is trapped somewhere in the maze of passageways between his chest and stomach and the sensation is a heavy heat down his spine when Zayn winks at him, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips.

_Who the fuck is this boy?_

“Excuse me,” Liam chokes out, curling his fingers around invisible threads of _inhale, exhale_.

Zayn chuckles again, shaking his head before finishing his nearly forgotten cigarette from earlier.  He raises his brow at the stain of crimson pressed to Liam’s cheeks and there’s sweat sliding down his throat, trickling lower over the center of his back.

“Maybe another time,” Zayn says under another breath of evaporating smoke.

He’s stealing Harry’s last shot of tequila with an easy smile, Harry falling back into his chest with his fingers tangled lazily in Louis’ shirt.  They laugh into each other’s neck, sharing the gold liquid like life support and Liam wipes his hands across his soiled dishtowel to rid his mind of the softness of Zayn’s skin.

It doesn’t work but he didn’t really think it would.

He’s too distracted by Tears for Fears and – _welcome to your life. There’s no turning back. Even while we sleep_ – and the way Zayn’s eyes crinkle when he really laughs at something to notice Niall climbing sloppily over the bar and nearly crashing to the floor.  It pulls him from the way Zayn’s tongue runs his lips again – something he does too often for Liam’s liking except, he kind of _does_ like it – and he reaches a hand out to help Niall steady himself.  He cleans off a few more glasses while Niall leans on his shoulder, presses a messy kiss to his cheek and he fucking loves Niall.

Even in the midst of a hailstorm and thoughts about tattoos and learning the meaning of each of them, Niall feels like clear sunshine and warmth.

“Look at these two idiots,” Niall whispers – or tries to but Niall and Harry have never been good at such a thing – against the shell of Liam’s ear.

It tickles and Liam knocks Niall off balance trying to escape his wet breath.  He cups a hand around Niall’s spine to prevent him from tripping over his own feet, hauling him back in until Niall’s lips collide with the side of his neck.

He follows Niall’s eyes to Louis and Harry, the way they avoid touching and talking and steal glances at each other when no one’s watching – except everyone’s watching now because, fuck, _how did they miss this_?

“When did we let that happen?” Niall groans, nosing under Liam’s jaw like a puppy.

Liam chuckles, tightening his fingers to the small of Niall’s back.  “I don’t think we did.”

“It’s just,” Niall hums, his face scrunched thoughtfully before he finishes, “so new, bro.  Like insanely new.”

Liam nods, his teeth clipping the edge of his lip, almost drawing blood.  His fingers buzz up Niall’s back, pretend that the hot skin beneath that shirt feels anything like Zayn’s.

“It’s gross is what it is,” Liam teases, laughing into Niall’s fluffy hair while Harry tiptoes long fingers up the back of Louis’ head before quickly jerking them back – _everybody wants to rule the world_.

Niall looks amused for a moment, pulling back to play with the buttons on Liam’s shirt – ‘ _you’ve never looked good in plaid; you look boring’_ – and Liam can’t help the way he runs his eyes over the frosted windows and Andy losing another game of pool to Maz and Jesy still dancing in the corner with Phoebe before carefully watching the curve of Zayn’s shoulders, the way his thick stubble does little to hide the glow of his skin.

“So I take it _this_ is a little new too,” Niall says between giggles and fingers drawing invisible circles around Liam’s birthmark.

Liam raises his eyebrows, humming quietly before turning to look at Niall.

Those blue eyes are so dense with curiosity and he laughs like the turn of a tide before he says, “You know, you openly fancying a lad.”

Liam knits his brow, lips puckered as Niall jerks his head in Zayn’s direction.  He waggles his brows, poking at Liam’s side in a manner that’s a little less ticklish, just annoying.  Liam shoves him gently and sighs at the way Niall stumbles but maintains some sort of alignment with him.

“I don’t fancy him,” Liam snaps quietly, his nose wrinkled and his jaw stiff.  “Not even a little.”

Niall’s laugh echoes against the white noise in Liam’s head before he repeats, “Not even a little bit.”

It’s a taunt and he knows Niall too well to hate him for it.  He’s not malicious like Louis or haunting like Harry would be.  He’s just Niall.

And maybe he’s right.  Just a little bit.  Not that Liam’s going to admit it but he feels helpless when his eyes slide over Zayn again, over the weight of his smile and the tattoos and the way he’s already lighting up another cigarette.

He’s never wanted to be the smoke between someone’s lips so fervently before in his life.

**

Later, when the snow scales down in a quiet hum like hymnals and the sky is a stark purple shade with the moon high behind the clouds, the pub feels like a vacuum for his thoughts.  It’s near silent, except for the Stones playing softly on the jukebox and the buzz of something sweet off Jade’s lips as she dresses down the kitchen.  Andy’s passed out across the pool table from shots of Jagger Louis’ corralled him into – something he fought against but Andy was so insistent against Louis’ challenge and Louis is artful with his words, his tongue too, something Harry lets loose with a laugh over mugs of lager and drunken touches that go hidden – and Liam knows he’ll have to help him home once he’s done cleaning.

Niall had escorted Eleanor down the road to the inn hours ago with flushed cheeks and nervous hands and Zayn drug Harry from the bar not too long after _last call_ with a smile that promised something Liam’s still unsure of, hours later.

_‘See you soon, I hope, yeah?’_

The words pirouette and take flight in his head until the air sworn to his brain is siphoned off.  It clatters around in his ears along with _‘babe’_ and the long looks Zayn gave him from across the short distance of a bar separating them like continents and there’s a chill at the base of his spine that blinks out Morse code.  It separates and floats along with this feeling, in his gut, that always seems to stick around this time of year:

He misses them, awfully.

Everything shifts into the cracks of the floor – his thoughts, the needed distractions – and he moves without haste to wipe down the bar while Louis helps him cap all of the bottles, dump the ice out back where the frosty air coats his lungs with relief.

When it’s that static noise between snowflakes and the jukebox, he elbows Louis roughly and eyes him cautiously.

“What the actual fuck – “

“How long?” Liam interjects with narrowed eyes, fingers pinching the soft skin just around Louis’ hip.

Louis jumps back, waving hands like white flags before kicking at Liam.  “How long since what – “

Liam sighs, knocking his shoulder roughly against Louis’.

“ _Oh_.”

“How long have you two been,” Liam waves his hands between them to explain the rest but it’s not enough before he adds, “How long has my best mate been shagging my other mate?”

Louis laughs, the sound stupid and aggravating with the slightest hints of arrogance.

“Who says we are shagging?”

Liam shoves at his shoulder before washing out a few of the soiled mugs, hands buried in suds and warm water.  He flicks stray drops at Louis until Louis shrieks, hopping up on the freshly cleaned bar.  He crosses his ankles and drags his palms over his skinny jeans, sighing loudly.

“It’s his sister Gemma’s fault, really,” Louis says, his voice just beneath the roll of something by Maroon 5 that’s vaguely familiar to Liam – like two years ago in the sun with Harry and Louis bookending him and Niall’s smile so triumphant in the glare of the light.  He drags shaky fingers through his thick hair, pushing it back like Harry does when he’s hiding something.

Or staring fondly at Louis.

“Over the summer, she invited me out to Leeds because she was doing some amateur photography work,” Louis explains, hands moving with his words, eyes darting all over the room.  The lights are dimmed, every shadow highlighting the soft sides of Louis’ face and the way his eyes shine like the surface of the ocean under an azure moon.  He drops his chin a little before adding, voice drenched in awe, “Hazza was there.  And he was so fucking _lit_ on the music and he yanked me around to see all of his favorite bands, which I never got because he’s got shit taste in music, that one – “

Liam snorts, a hand cupping the back of his neck.  It’s what they all say about each other – a kaleidoscope of music taste that runs from _Tom Petty_ all the way to _Carly Rae what’s-her-name_.

“We smoked a joint, danced around to Green Day and he snogged me after Fall Out Boy,” Louis says, his voice dipped in something tender now.  He tips his chin up a little, lips creased into a smile that’s memorable like your first taste of alcohol, that last kiss before a heartbreak.  “He sat me on a blanket in the middle of the field, watched the stars and we shagged in the back of one of his mate’s rusted pickup truck and, fuck, Leemo I couldn’t get over the way the idiot kept smiling at me like he’s wanted this for – “

“For years,” Liam whispers, nodding and he gets it.  He gets the way Harry’s always played hero worship and _Louis, your voice is amazing, teach me how to do that, I’ll fight the war for you_ all makes sense under the hollow lights of the pub.

It’s a play on the _obvious_ that they’ve always missed, including Louis.

Louis bites on his lip nervously, fingers flexing over his knees, feet kicking back at the bar.

“We kept messaging each other when school started up but, Christ, I didn’t think he’d still be so – “

“Aren’t you?” Liam wonders in a singsong voice and his smile isn’t terrorizing.  It’s genuine.

Louis steals breaths between the slide of haunting pianos and Taylor Swift, his chest expanding only to cave in just as quick.  He sweeps the hair off of his forehead with his eyes transfixed on his feet like he’s ashamed.

“Maybe,” he whispers, chewing on his thumbnail.  “But fuck I never thought it.  Not once.”

Liam nods, leaning against the opposite end of the bar with his arms folded.  Andy’s snoring reaches over the music, over the rattling sound that Liam believes is Louis’ heart but he doesn’t question.

“Gemma has always been quite the matchmaker,” Liam teases, winding his towel up before snapping it at Louis’ thigh, the crack whipping at the tension and silence.

“She’s a _fuckbag_ just like that damn Horan and, Liam James Payne, I swear before all that you hold holy I will murder you, dump your body off somewhere between here and the Thames River and won’t think twice about it if you tell a soul,” Louis hisses, hopping off the bar.

His shoulders are squared, he’s standing as tall as he can with his chest puffed out and he knows how menacing, intimidating Louis can be to anyone else.  He’s seen the things Louis’ done to a few lads who’ve used the wrong words with him, addressed his mates in the wrong tone.

He laughs, the sound vibrating at the core of his chest before resting a comforting hand on Louis’ tense shoulder.

“Not a soul, Lou,” Liam promises, his nose crinkling with another laugh.  The lights drown out some of the worry wrinkling Louis’ brow and he squeezes his shoulder for strength, not pity.  “I think it’s quite adorable.”

Louis rolls his eyes with a stiff chuckle.  “Fuck off, you twit.”

They finish cleaning the glasses, tossing the garnishes, and Louis nudges their hips together through some old Justin Timberlake stuff that has Louis’ bopping his shoulders and Liam trying to harmonize beneath the backbeat.

“Haz’s mate is quite interesting, yeah?”

Liam stiffens and hates himself for it because Louis’ eyes widen and his smile curves in that shamelessly broad way.

“Don’t really know him,” Liam mutters, turns his eyes away to fix the cocktail napkins at the end of the bar.

Louis giggles, fingers pinching at Liam’s hip.  They throw fake punches and varied forms of kicks before Louis tugs an arm around Liam’s neck, hauling him closer.

“C’mon Leemo,” Louis presses, smiling lazily against Liam’s cheek.  “He’s kinda hot, right?”

“Hardly,” Liam groans, going slack beneath Louis’ arm.

“Liar,” Louis hisses, dragging his knuckles over Liam’s scalp.  “He’s kind of gross with the way he was looking at you but you seem like you need a good blowjob or at least a wank from a pretty boy from Bradford.”

Liam winces, elbowing Louis back before inquiring, “And how do you know where he’s from?”

Louis grins, shuffling back to shrug on his coat, twist his scarf loosely around his neck.

“Learn a lot when you actually take the time to _chat_ with the bloke rather than _staring_ at him like a fucking wet dream and, I swear Liam, you are not fifteen anymore,” Louis warns with a pointed finger.  “S’okay to actually, you know, take interest in a lad.  I’ve known you liked dudes since – “

Liam cringes and he doesn’t want to remember Louis casually shifting through Liam’s internet history when they were sharing a laptop to finish up some stupid Lit assignment just before A-Levels.

“’m not interested in him, Lou,” Liam insists, his voice strained.  He clears his throat quickly, shaking off the oncoming blush before it flares his cheeks a new shade.  “’sides, what for?  He’s here, with Haz, for the holidays.  Reckon we won’t fall in love and get married in that short time.”

Louis nods, lips twisting awkwardly.  “Suppose not,” he hums, groaning at the way Andy’s still sprawled across the pool table like an upside down starfish, “but that shouldn’t stop you from a really good fuck, maybe giving the guy a try.  He can’t be that horrible if he’s mates with Harry.”

 _He can be_ , Liam thinks but he knows it’s just a diversion tactic.  It’s just another way to avoid the fact that he’s still wondering what color Zayn’s eyes are under soft lighting, how his body moves beneath thin sheets, what his kisses taste like after a smoke, and how poetic his words sound in the morning.

He shoves those thoughts down and clicks off the last of the lights while Louis slides out the door with promises of breakfast.  He smiles fondly at him before gathering his coat and Andy to bury himself in the cold and snow, the moon hazy behind the clouds.  It bites at his skin, soaks his bones, and he loses himself in his city rather than the whirl of everything in his head.

**

He’s in love with the way, a few days after a storm, the sun warms the streets and reflects off the sparkly snow and coats the stone walls and brick buildings with something sweet like amber but lasting like saffron.

The melting snow sloshes under his trainers, cold air lining his lungs, and his cheeks ache from the snap of the breeze but he never misses a morning when he’s not opening the pub to jog through the streets and let the sun chase him down the sidewalks.  Icicles drip dark stains over his thick, warm hoodie while he greets familiar faces with soft smiles and crinkled eyes.  He skips through half of the songs on his iPod – settling for anything that’s not too acoustic-heavy or vocally strong – but refuses to miss a second of anything by Drake or Bon Jovi.  His joggers do little to stop the cold from increasing the tension and burn in his legs but he keeps a steady, quick pace through the streets until he turns the same corner twice and finds a street he’s known more than his own.

He doesn’t ring Louis up for that breakfast he was so earnest about the night before because he knows Louis mostly always has a lie-in the first two days back – buried beneath a mountain of comfy blankets with his feet tucked into the bare-thin thread of the same old ratty duvet he’s had since he was a kid, with a fort built out of pillows, every curtain in his mum’s house drawn tightly shut, and a cup of hot Starbucks waiting by his bedside via one Harry Styles with a note attached, vacant poetry Harry probably scribbled off of Google.  It’s insanely innocent the way Louis looks with bed-rumpled hair, soft pink cheeks, and bleary eyes that are smudged with a need for more sleep.

Liam tips his head back, fingers pushing at the edge of his beanie until the cold breath of winter bathes his sweat-slick forehead, the sting beating across his skin.  His lips curve, cheeks lifting.  He lets the dying snowflakes from yesterday revolve around his head, brush over his lips, his tongue licking out to catch a few.  In the distance, Michael Bublé hums static-y from the music store – _I don’t want a lot for Christmas. There is just one thing I need_.  Fairy lights are strung across the windows of all the nearby shops in soft whites, twinkling blues and Liam smiles contently as he passes by a lumped together, melting snowman with a crooked nose and small rocks for a goofy smile.

There’s something about the scent of fresh pastry, still-rising bread, something sprinkled with cinnamon that always calls to him when he pushes through that large glass door to his mum’s bakery.  It’s a warm, curling sensation that slides down his chest, moves sideways and perpendicular with his heart until it reaches his spine.  It always smells like fresh-baked sugar biscuits with that hint of vanilla – never imitation like most other places – that draws up the corners of his mouth and he’s dizzy like the first few steps off of a merry-go-round.

“Oh, Harry love, that looks wonderful!”

Liam grins at the sound of her voice, the way it’s awe-swept and almost as distracting as the music – _I feel it in my fingers. I feel it in my toes. Well, love is all around me. And so the feeling grows_ – playing from that small stereo in the corner of the shop.

“Almost got it,” Harry groans, reaching high from a ladder to a corner of the store, pinning a shiny string of garland high on the wall to match the other ones already littering the shop in the kind of Christmas cheer that would make Santa Claus nauseous.

His boots slip a little on the ladder, the structure shaking before Harry steadies it again with a gasp.  His curls are pulled from his face by a silly bandana and he’s so Mick Jagger with a loose flannel shirt – buttons mostly undone like its _summer_ instead of the dead of December – and skintight jeans.

“Oh dear, Harry please be careful.”

“’m fine Karen, trust me,” Harry lies because he looks shaky, uncoordinated on the ladder.

Liam laughs to himself – he’s been the same since he was a child.  Incredibly clumsy, out of rhythm with everything, especially his own two feet.

“You always say that Harry,” Karen sighs happily, hands wrapping around the rungs of the ladder to keep it in place, “but we both know you’ve dropped more than a few trays of biscuits and nearly set the kitchen on fire that time – “

Harry whines with a grin, his tongue peeking out as he concentrates.  “It was one time.”

“ _Three times_ ,” Perrie calls up from behind the till.

Her once lavender hair is a bright shade of white-blonde and her blue eyes – always too large but fiercely engaging – are shadowed by smoky mascara and long, long lashes.  She winks up at Harry, glittery nails tapping on the counter to the music – _so if you really love me, come on and let it show_ – and he thinks of last Christmas, cuddled on Harry’s mum’s couch, the four of them with bowls of soup, mugs of hot tea doused with hints of apple cider, a large country of blankets surrounding them and _Love Actually_ playing in the dark.

“Shut it Pezza,” Harry laughs out, finally tacking the garland to the wall and Liam thinks he lets out a huge sigh of relief with his mum, palming the nape of his neck as Harry scurries down the ladder.

“Mistletoe is next my boy,” Karen giggles, pinching at Harry’s cheeks until they’re a loud roar of scarlet and dim pinks.

The flare of that dimple across his face, the way forest green eyes are rimmed by casual shades of gold makes Liam feel at home, insanely cozy.

He’s missed Harry; his smile, his charm, his _Harry_.

“What’s that Karen?  I’d hate for Geoff to think I was trying to nick his bird,” Harry teases, sweeping Karen into one of those large hugs that Liam knows tastes like peppermint and feels like a volcano.

“You’re too much Harry,” Karen laughs out, swatting him back but she keeps a wrinkled hand on his shoulder, squeezing tightly.

She looks so young under the bright lights of Christmas and the store’s soft bulbs, her smile creasing her cheeks and crinkling her eyes and Liam wonders if his father has even noticed that she’s dyed her hair blonder, started accompany Liam on a few of his jobs to get in shape, flips through _British Vogue_ and _Cosmopolitan_ monthly just for hints on silly things like _How to keep a romance alive_.

“Almost half as cute as that son of yours,” Perrie hums, leaning forward with her chin on her knuckles and a wide smirk for Liam.

Liam snorts, bashful and he doesn’t know why because Perrie has been working at the shop for almost a year since transferring from Uni and he’s gotten over the way she flirts with everyone – Andy or Maz or, on her best days, Jade.

Karen coos and Liam’s drawn into a warm, vanilla-scented hug before he can meet eyes with his mum.  He hauls her in, bury his face in her neck for the whiff of powdered sugar and yeast and a _finally_ he hasn’t felt in days.

“Hey, quit stealing my bird,” Harry teases, sliding behind the counter with Perrie and slipping on that ridiculously horrific orange apron he wears whenever he comes home – the same one he wore when he was sixteen and working here, early mornings covered in bits of dough and hair turned white from the flour.

Liam flips him off with his mum still buried in his arms and he can feel the way she shakes with laughter.

“You two,” she sighs, pulling back with an affectionate smile and glassy eyes like she’s on the verge of tears.  “Just like brothers.”

“Or idiots,” Perrie adds under a muffled laugh, hip-checking Harry away to reach for the tip jar.  It’s stuff with a few quid, coins that rattle against the glass when Perrie lifts it.

Liam thinks of Lucy Van Pelt when she shakes it – _‘It's too early. I never eat December snowflakes. I always wait until January._ ’ – and he can’t help the way his smile wraps around his cheeks.

“I thought you’d never come by, love,” Karen gushes, reaching across the counter to lift up that same mug Liam’s looked upon since he was a kid – the one with the painted on Santa Claus and Christmas lights, falling snow and Christmas wreaths that she got at the thrift market for just a few quid.

Liam grins, the heady scent of hot chocolate and marshmallows already filling his senses.  He yanks off his gloves, pops out his earbud before taking the cup from her, the steam lifting like pretty swirls of London fog.

“Spoiled,” Harry snickers while sweeping past Perrie to set out a fresh batch of gingersnaps.

Liam wrinkles his nose, smirking.  “Did I not see your mum brushing your hair while you sat in your onesie with _Home Alone_ on last Christmas when Lou and I came to pick you up for breakfast?”

Harry scoffs, his smile wide and contagious in ways Liam will never get over.  The pulse of those green eyes is addictive as Harry strides by, pushing off Liam’s beanie to curl fingers into the thicker pieces of his hair.

“You forgot the part where Gemma was painting my toes pink,” Harry giggles and Liam punches his hip out of fondness, not disdain.

Karen smiles like the word on her lips is _proud_ and Liam chews on his lip to ignore the way it rides over his skin like the first capillary waves on the ocean surface.

There’s a small giggle – the sound so distinct now like Liam’s known it all of his life, not just a few hours – and Liam turns a little to spot Zayn sitting at one of the small tables in a corner of the shop, a foot propped up on an empty chair and cheeks pushed so high his eyes crinkle up.

Karen gasps, her smile widening like the splitting of the Atlantic.  She curls an arm around Liam’s hip, nudging close before she says, “Oh love, this is Harry’s roommate.”

Liam nods slowly, lips singed by the hot chocolate but the flavor on his tongue drowns out the white noise of _Zayn, Zayn, Zayn_ for just a few seconds.

“Have you met Zayn,” she adds, her voice so lofty that it chokes the liquid down Liam’s throat.

“We have,” Zayn says before Liam can.  His smile is sweet, almost endearing like he means it before his eyes dance up and down Liam like – like he wants to drag him to the back of the shop, press his naked spine to the cold surface of the metal table his mum rolls dough out on and fuck the breath out of Liam.

With flour powdered over their skin, the heat of the oven washing sweat down their body, his lips staining Liam’s skin a dark red to match the hints of shy pink that would probably cover Liam’s flesh because, fuck, he’d love that.

He’d love to give Zayn control.

Liam turns his eyes down, swallowing down more hot chocolate with mini marshmallows melting on his tongue and his dick throbs in his sweats.  He hopes Zayn doesn’t notice the way the material tents a little or the way Liam’s shifting on his feet to hide it all.

When he looks up, he glances over Zayn like it’s the first time – first kisses, first brush of fingertips, first rush of air to your lungs after a first time that lasts the first few hours of your eternity.  His hair isn’t laden with product this time.  It’s soft, hanging over his forehead a bit, and thick enough to tangle around Liam’s fingers if he wanted it to.  He’s wearing black-framed glasses that do little to hide the honey glaze eyes that are like light copper.  He’s still got dark stubble decorating his jaw, chin, the lower extremities of his cheeks.  He’s nearly swallowed by some Mickey Mouse jumper instead of a leather jacket and his jeans are still torn, vintage and worn.

Liam draws his eyes over the book opened in one of Zayn’s hands – _the Perks of Being a Wallflower_ – and the tips of his fingers are smudged with dry paint, speckles of bright colors like spray paint.

“Oh Harry, don’t you dare get up on me counters with your ugly boots to hang that mistletoe,” Karen squeals, abandoning Liam’s side to rush the door and Liam ignores the way Harry moans loudly or the mumbled remarks from Perrie about Harry being useless.

He doesn’t know why he takes careful steps towards Zayn’s table, waits until Zayn kicks out a chair across from him like an invitation, a _‘won’t you please’_ that reflects off Zayn’s loud, loud eyes.

“Figured you for a tea kind of lad,” Zayn teases when Liam slides uncomfortably slow into the chair.

His shoulders tense up – _judging arsehole_ – before he sinks down, a wave of something calm over his senses when Zayn’s smile begs off arrogance.

Zayn chews on his bottom lip, tilting his chin downward like an apology – a quiet one that’s barely heard – before adding, “Hot cocoa’s good.  My mum adds nutmeg and bits of mint.”

Liam snorts, slouching down in the chair.  He arches an eyebrow, mimicking Zayn’s pull on his bottom lip.

“It’s a comfort thing,” Liam explains, the timbre of his voice low like he can’t control it.  He’s not shy – never really was even if most of the kids didn’t like him much until Louis came around, Harry too.  But Zayn makes him feel –

There isn’t a word.  Not one creative or exact enough.  Zayn just makes him _feel_.

“Mum used to make it for me every winter after school,” Liam adds, tilting his head as Zayn lowers his book.  He turns it face down to hold his place, leaning in a little with interest that colors Liam’s cheeks April-soft.  He clears his throat loudly, shaking off resistance to say, “I got on with the kids at school but I never thought they really liked me for me, y’know?  They were a bit mean sometimes.  I was complete rubbish at everything and, I dunno, it’s like my mummy knew I needed something.”

Zayn nods, the corners of his lips pulled up sweetly.

“She’d make me hot chocolate with way too many marshmallows,” Liam laughs out and the sound is so genuine – like it is with Louis or Harry or Niall.  His cheeks curve up and Zayn’s eyes are like electric guitars, thundering drums.  “And she’d sat me at the table, talk about all of her new recipes before I’d run off to watch _Toy Story_ for the millionth time.”

Zayn chuckles, his shoulders lifting with the sound.  “ _Power Rangers_ and Shepard’s pie.”

Liam’s brow lifts, his smile stuttered.  Zayn shrugs, teeth catching the corner of his lip and the silence wades between them like _history, I want to know everything now please_.

The Waitresses ring in the background – _Merry Christmas, merry Christmas. But I think I’ll miss this one this year_ – and Karen’s laughter collides with Harry’s giggles into a symphony of something oddly pleasant.

Liam lets his drink burn down the center of his tongue, the remains of chocolate thick on his lips as he watches Zayn drag slow fingers over the glossy wood of the table.  He reaches out, unconsciously, to brush the tips of his own against Zayn’s, drawing back quickly when Zayn’s eyes lift.

“You’ve got paint on ‘em,” he stumbles out, sinking a little lower in his chair.  Fucking idiot.

Zayn grins, his teeth pulling in his lip again.

“Yeah.  I was off at Harry’s doing some artwork.  Just some old unfinished stuff,” Zayn explains, his voice wrapped in Yorkshire tones and coffee-stained endearment.  “I don’t know why I was up so early because, honestly, I think mornings are fucking horrid – “

Liam smirks, imagines Zayn with sleep-heavy hair and small eyes and a middle finger to the sun.

“ – but I just sat out back in my jumper and started sketching the woods behind the bungalow, man.  The snow and the animals and, like I think it was pretty sick.  Don’t have things like that back home.  Not on my side at least.”

Liam bites at his thumb knuckle, looks up through his eyelashes at the wonder in that glazed gold and it’s an unyielding honesty that Liam thinks you’ll never find around here.

Not with the same people, same places, same open wide sky Liam’s known all of his life.

“Sounds ace,” he mumbles around the lip of his cup and his heart starts up again at the way Zayn grins, the harsh lines around his eyes when they bunch up.  Their fingers move in syncopation across the table and his chest bulges out like his heart is uncomfortably large and out of place.

“You’ve got nice eyes,” Zayn says between the etch of silence and holiday music and Perrie wailing along with Mariah Carey, nearly hitting all of the notes.  An index finger meets a ring finger, pinkies just missing, thumbs somewhere in the divide before Zayn adds, “They’re quite beautiful.”

Liam tries to hide his smile behind the mug of almost-drained hot chocolate, ducks his head until the fever against his cheeks subsides.  He giggles – the sound awful and haunting and, fuck, puberty all over again – and kicks at Zayn’s foot under the table.

“Nice lips too,” Zayn attaches while leaning forward on his elbows, his fingers finding the spaces between Liam’s, “Wonder how soft they are on other things.”

Liam shivers, blushes something horrible and bleeding like scarlet.  He pulls his hand back, fingers already missing the counterpoint and callouses of Zayn’s, and scoots his chair back.  It feels impossible to find leverage and balance and his knees aren’t nearly as strong as they used to be when he stands.  Everything’s a bit erratic with the way Zayn’s grinning up at him, unabashed and so fucking confident.

“I should – “

Fingers wrap loosely around his wrist, a palm pressed to the _‘only time will tell…’_ and _irony_ , that’s the word.  But he’s focused on the softness of Zayn’s skin, the plea hidden beneath the lust in his eyes.

“Stay for a little longer,” Zayn whispers, a little uncertain but it’s buried beneath the curl of his smirk.

Liam wants play second to his need to get back, pulling his hand from the fire.  He lets his wrist stay limp under Zayn’s touch, hates the way his blood burns hotter when Zayn’s thumb presses to the veins on the underside.

“I was hoping to find some new stuff to read,” Zayn says after too long, too many breaths without the sound of his voice and the wake of brilliance in his eyes and Liam’s still on the outside but everything shifts left to right, vice versa behind his bones.

Liam tries to find a clear path for the words in his chest to slide up his throat but his heart’s in the way and he sighs out _relief_ when Harry stumbles up to them, clasping large hands on Liam’s shoulders, a chin tucked against the tendons of Liam’s neck.

“Brilliant,” Harry chimes, squeezing the tension from Liam’s shoulders.  “Payno should take you down to Walsh’s.  Don’t you go by every Tuesday for the new comic books and _Star Wars_ crap, Li?”

Liam groans, elbows at Harry’s ribs but catches his abdomen instead.  He grins at the moan that bursts from Harry’s lips, satisfied.

“Don’t like _Star Wars_ , mate,” he whines, rolling his eyes when Harry presses a messy kiss to his cheek.

“Han Solo, you are not,” Zayn teases, standing and snatching his book up from the table.

Liam puckers his lips, flips him off with narrowed eyes and a whispered _‘fuck off’_ on the wings of his smile.

“Whatever,” Harry puts in, easing back but staying so close like he can’t bear to not touch Liam.  It’s that familiar ache between them – once a year, for weeks, and they’re all so in love with each other.

“You should take him by before your shift, Payno,” Harry insists, nudging Liam toward Zayn and Liam thanks his years of footie practice for the way he drags on his heels, steadies his weight before he collides with Zayn, their shoulders brushing like a _hello_ that shouldn’t feel so –

He thinks he never learned enough Shakespeare or Tennyson during school because he can’t think in poetry or pretty words.

Instead, he watches Zayn’s lips, the way a slow tongue drags over chapped skin, and makes everything shiny, brand new.  He wants to waste that last hour before his sift learning the complexity of them, the way they taste, if he can lick away the flavor of smoke and whatever coffee Zayn drinks and _deck the fucking halls_ , the way they look when they say his name.

“I’ve got to go meet up with my mum and Gemma for a bit, anyway,” Harry adds, still lost in his own little world like they’re paying attention.  “I’m sure that would be quite boring for little Zayner.  We can meet up later to go catch a film with the Nialler – “

Liam thinks it’s Harry who started this – attaching _‘er_ to almost everyone’s name until it made sense to him, became too contagious for Niall to not do the same, addictive when Louis tried it out a few times, something Liam avoids aggressively.

“ – and then maybe we can come by the pub after dinner,” Harry finishes with a large scale grin and too bright eyes with tufts of curls falling in his face before he pushes them off.

Liam’s lips move without words – _maybe we could_ – before Zayn smirks, nodding.

“Comic books and a few novels to kill time would be mad, bro,” Zayn says to Harry rather than Liam but his fingers run the side of Liam’s hand like he’s saying something quieter, darker just for Liam.

His cock jumps in his joggers and he hates that he skipped a morning wank with his dick leaking against his belly just past five to shower and get an early start on his run before the sun turned the rose-colored sky blue again.

Teeth tug at his bottom lip and he’s half-pulling in an extra breath before he sighs, nodding for Harry, eyeing Zayn like he’s some kind of wonder for a moment.  He backs away from the table to press a kiss to his mum’s cheek, a small wave for Perrie, and he waits in the doorway for Zayn with knots in his stomach and _regret_ –

He thinks he’ll know that word in the most familiar setting before Harry drags Zayn back to University – Liam’s sanity trailing right behind them.

**

There’s a silence between them as they walk over snow-covered streets.  It’s not the awkward kind Liam attaches to strangers, foreign places, an uncomfortable greeting.  It’s – well, _nice_.

The way Zayn chances small peeks at him over his glasses, the sun casting velvety rays over his defined cheek.  His teeth keep bearing down on a corner of his bottom lip and Liam wants to trace it soft, not swollen.  Their footfalls match the rhythm of his heart – steady, a bit in synch.  The bristly air – aided by swirling winds that bat at the nape of Liam’s neck – feels tolerable but only because he finds himself walking so close to Zayn, their fingers brushing intermediately on accident.

Or purposely; he hasn’t decided yet.

He distracts himself with smiling at faces he’s known all of his life, taking in the shops that are flooded with Christmas decorations and the echoes of Bing Crosby, hints of – _Santa, baby, so hurry down the chimney tonight_ – that buzz in his mind between their shared breaths and uneven grins.

“This place really isn’t so bad,” Zayn says around a corner, past the coffee shop.

Liam hums, lifting his brow.  “Isn’t so bad,” he repeats, lips twisting up.  Zayn’s tone isn’t condescending, though Liam thinks it’s hidden in the cracks, but he chooses to observe way his breath comes out in white fogs of smoke rather than the curl of Zayn’s smirk.

Zayn half-shrugs, inching a little closer until their shoulders knock and Liam wallows in Zayn’s warmth.

“Harry says you’ve been here your whole life,” Zayn adds, his voice distinctively lower like he’s afraid to ask.  Like he’s being cautious, respectful.

It draws up a small smile, Liam’s teeth fighting against his lip to maintain some sense of control.  He feels weak, drawn closer, their fingers dancing over each other like feet padding across wet sand.

Flakes of snow, dusted off the rooftops, spin around them before he says, “I have.  My whole life.  Just me and this city.  Just me and my – “

Zayn smirks, white teeth bare and a pink tongue pressing firmly against the back of them.

“He goes on about you all of the time,” Zayn declares, his cheeks bunched up until Liam can’t tell the autumn brown from the slivers of spring gold.  “Back at Uni, we spend hours in our beds chatting about home.  Mostly him, but I listen until I can’t anymore.”

Liam blinks at him, nearly misses the fire hydrant that divides them but he sails around it just to get close again – fingers tickling, shoulders bumping, hearts in a now unsteady rhythm.  Pride washes over him with his mouth gaped and, fuck, he’s been in love with these boys for so long now.

And he thinks, if they asked again, he’d leave this city behind to be tucked at their sides for a _forever and always_.

“Haz is a,” Liam pauses, swallowing down a grossly large amount of adoration for that twit Harry before he finishes, “He’s something else.”

Zayn laughs, the sound chasing the snow through the sky, rattling off the small buildings they pass.  He tilts his head to admire Liam for a breath before shaking his head.

“Styles says the same about you,” he says under a breath of warm, foggy air.

Liam nods because he can’t quite find words – _speechless: unable to speak, especially as the temporary result of shock or some strong emotion_ , as defined by Oxford.

He wades in the silence again, instead, and envelopes himself in the streets, the damp cold air, the cars driving down the road, and the music still filtering from shop to shop.  Some days, he can feel how _alive_ this city is under his fingertips in varied frequencies and neon bursts.

It’s a feeling he wants to know Zayn by.

He budges through the door at Walsh’s, holding it open for a smiling Zayn who winks at him like a _thank you_ but Liam’s looking down at his trainers, the snow they’re tracking onto the worn carpet of the shop.  This place is always so quiet – a sea of turning pages, soft humming from behind the counter, the stench of instant coffee because Mr. Walsh has been addicted to that stuff since his second wife left him years ago.  There’s a lingering scent of dust from the old books, the used ones lying in stacks all over the shop.  The lighting in the front is poor but the halo of fluorescent lights in the aisles is tolerable.

There’s a constant rotation of classic music playing from an old radio behind the front desk that only changes during the holiday season – mostly George Michael, _Anthology_ by the Beatles, the occasional hum of James Morrison because Mr. Walsh, bless him, tries so hard.  It’s the kind of quiet that sticks to your skin for hours, hidden in the rows and rows of imagination, definition, and mental freedom.

It’s his escape.

Liam doesn’t know all of the sections of the store, though he’s certain he’s walked every row of the large shop for hours before, fingertips running over the spines of novels and Sylvia Plath, Hemingway, and Frost come to mind.  He knows the comic books are located near the front, close to the register, and a few rows back is the art section where he spent a few days pressing his palm to sunsets and ocean views and the beauty of black and white photography.

He skids his fingers over a few used romance novels stacked in boxes, following Zayn across the carpet.  He tucks his grin behind a fist at the way Zayn gazes around with large, curious eyes.  There’s a smile creased over Zayn’s face when they wander down the science fiction aisle, cutting a left toward the mystery novels.  Zayn’s fingers play over the shelves, almost scared to touch before he’s hauling book after book into his arms.

“They’re so cheap,” Zayn mumbles while they’re in the autobiography section and he’s already established a small army of books by his feet.

Liam leans back against one of the dusty shelves, smirking.  He folds his arms, drags his eyes over Zayn’s lithe form as he reaches high for another book.  His shirt rides up, smooth skin and the sinewy muscles of his back and a pair of charcoal blue Klein’s peek out of his jeans.

“Mr. Walsh doesn’t charge much,” Liam mutters, teeth clipping his lip to stop his thoughts – the stretch of that back, Liam’s fingertips caressing all of the dimples and dips and the curve of a spine, his lips navigating in the dark, downward until his tongue could slide slippery over Zayn’s hole – and he shakes until the shelf behind him trembles.

Zayn grins over his shoulder, pushing fringe off of his forehead.  “I could live here.”

 _I wish you would_ , he thinks and that sounds stupid.  Fucking Harry Styles and all of his University mates.

Momentum, at least that’s what he wants to call it, forces itself uncomfortably against his skin until he’s circling his fingers around Zayn’s wrist – casually stroking the chord of the microphone, learning the shading so intimately now – and dragging him down a few other aisles.

They explore the adventure section, Liam lost in the way Zayn whispers lines from famous poets down another row.  He smirks at the way Zayn sits on the floor, feet tucked beneath him, to fumble through a few books in the young adult section.  They frown through the history section, laughing into each other’s space before Zayn guides him – pinkies hooked and Liam’s heart on fire – toward the graphic novels.

“My mates back home would get so shitfaced on Friday nights and I would just,” Zayn sighs, smirking with just a hint of something pink pressed to his cheeks, “I’d sat for hours on my bed, reading through the Hulk and trying to wrap my brain about _Wanted_.  A bit of a geek.”

 _Or a god_ , Liam muses, sliding in close until they’re propped together on the floor with their backs against a shelf.  Their legs are stretched out in front of them, feet knocking every few breaths.  Liam reaches across Zayn’s lap to turn the page, grinning when Zayn blinks up in awe.

“This is such a brilliant saga,” Liam mumbles, shy and _thirteen_.  He’s a fucking newborn teenager under Zayn’s stare.

Zayn nods, biting at his lip, pressing his hip to Liam’s.  His free hand rests lightly on Liam’s thigh and he tries not to squirm at the way his stomach tightens, his breath a little unsteady.

Zayn leans in, grins against his shoulder, thumbs back a few pages on Liam’s comic.

“You missed the important details, mate,” Zayn whispers into Liam’s hoodie, giggling.

The lighting is so poor up here but, he thinks, he can lose himself in the citrine shade of Zayn’s eyes.  He resigns to flicking at the hand Zayn has on his thigh, reminding himself that Zayn won’t be here long enough for him to memorize the feel of his skin or the taste of his lips or the way his name will sound spilling off Zayn’s tongue in the dark.

He’s the edge of winter and Liam thinks he wants to live in the summer, just until his skin stops aching.

“I have to get ready for my shift,” Liam whispers, the words heavy over his tongue.

Zayn bites back a displeased sound, scooting away a little.  His fingers linger on the fabric of Liam’s joggers with hesitance wrinkling his brow.

“Right,” Zayn huffs, kicking at a stray stack of books before pushing himself up to his feet.  “Wouldn’t want to keep you.”

 _But you should_ , Liam thinks, cursing himself.

There’s a wake of cold over his skin – even buried under comfy sweats and a racing heart – before he manages to get to his feet.  He swallows back – no, he will not think that word, again – and collects their books from the floor.  Zayn follows him around as he places everything back on their proper shelf, their quiet no longer that smooth kind that rests like gossamer on his shoulders.  Its heavy now, words unsaid.

“Do you want me to ring up Haz?  Maybe he can meet you – “

Zayn holds up a hand, shaking his head.  A smile filters over his lips.

“Think I want to walk around for a bit,” Zayn says once they’re outside.  He scratches at his neck, drags slow fingers through his soft hair before adding, “Wouldn’t mind seeing what you love so much about this city.”

The sun is a dense star of illumination in the sky now, at peace amongst the ivory and silver clouds and it streaks down across Zayn’s face like glitter and gold.  It catches the curve of Zayn’s smile and the way his lashes keep fluttering over his cheeks to map out broken shadows.  He looks young and guile and, fuck, Liam knows this will be a disaster.

“Come by later,” he mutters before he can wrap his tongue around the words and he tenses up, shoulders to toes, before his cheeks feel hot.  He clears his throat at Zayn’s grin, the one that’s clever and mischievous at once, before he chokes out, “With Hazza.  ‘m sure Lou and Niall will stop by.”

Zayn snorts, nodding.  He takes a few calculated steps backwards – _too far, come back_ – before he says, “Sure, man.  Wouldn’t mind it.”

Liam exhales softly, nodding back.  He drags already cold fingers over the nape of his neck, through the short hairs there as he watches Zayn shake with a laugh.  He waits until Zayn’s a dizzy haze of broken images under the sun, down the street and turning a corner, before he kicks at melting snow.

He tries to forget the _‘or come alone so I can stare at you for hours and we could recite all of our favorite lines from_ the Avengers _after I kiss you’_ he wanted to attach as he buries his hands into his pockets, turns to walk in the other direction towards the pub.

Towards _home_ , or what’s left of it.

**

“No El, I’m not gonna do it.”

Eleanor lets out a loud, petulant sigh that merges with the  buzz of Aerosmith in the corner – _I was cryin’ when I met you, now I’m trying to forget you_ – and Liam shakes his head from behind the bar, cleaning out a few mugs with a smile.  She whines behind her glass of cider, flicking at his wrist before pouting.

“’m not gonna dress up as Santa for your party,” Liam adds with a wink and clean fingers dragging over the bones in her wrist.

“But you _have_ to,” Eleanor groans.

“I don’t.”

Eleanor rolls her eyes promptly, leaning forward on her stool.  She swipes a lemon wedge from the garnish station, squeezing the juices into her still untouched glass of water before tossing the skin at Liam.

“You’re like the only one around this shit place who’s all Christmas cheer,” Eleanor remarks, sipping on her cider again while shiny droplets of condensation reflect the light of the sun in the background.  “Liam James Payne – “

Liam groans loudly, tossing his rag onto his shoulder.  He doesn’t know where it started – probably somewhere after Reception and before they learned the prose of proper diction – when she and Louis turned to addressing him with his _full name_ whenever they wanted something.  Or just wanted to be arses.

“ – since we were in diapers and don’t you dare give me that face.”

He sighs, chewing on half of his smile and she’s so earnest with those doe eyes, the curl of her upper lip, the press of her fingers to the curve of his wrist.

“I’m still not gonna do it,” he grins, ignoring the way she pinches at his skin.

“Do what?”

Louis flops down onto the stool next to Eleanor, a knit beanie covering half of his thick brown hair and Liam swears it belongs to Harry.  It has to.

His stubble is a little thinner, an old t-shirt hiding nothing – and Liam’s transfixed on all of his new artwork, the scratch marks of a needle mapping out silly tattoos that were probably created of used napkin drawing with a half-drunken smile on Louis’ lips.  Those blue eyes are like a lighthouse in the fog and he feels them calling him _home, home, home_.

“El has this daft idea,” Liam puts in before Eleanor can stutter out an argument, pushing a bottle of London Pride towards Louis before offering Eleanor a frothy glass of ale.

She swallows half of it in one go, wiping at her mouth with the back of her hand – she’s nothing like _London_ when she’s here; just one of the boys – before nudging Louis with her elbow.

“He won’t dress as Santa Claus at my Christmas do,” she complains, still a sullen child and she reminds him of Nicola whenever he refuses to help with the dishes or bake biscuits with Ruth.

Louis nods while mouthing down a gulp of beer.  He flicks his tongue over his lips to catch stray droplets, reaching out to tug at the material of Liam’s plaid shirt, grinning.

“Looks good on you mate,” he whispers, his voice doused with fond and Liam smirks out his appreciation.  “Becoming quite the man.”

“Louis,” Eleanor groans, nudging him again.  “Focus, Lou Bear, I swear.”

Liam chuckles into his sleeve at the wide eyes Louis gives her, shaking his head.

“You haven’t called me that since – “

She waves off a dismissive hand, sipping on her ale before flipping him off.  “Since we were idiots in love, I know.  What a complete disaster.”

Louis looks affronted, a self-righteous pout that puckers his lips and Eleanor giggles into her glass, hiccupping on the suds.  Liam bobs along to Steven Tyler’s wail and refills a few mugs of beer for the customers on the other end of the bar, smiling politely at the few quid they drop on the counter for tip – and because he’s _Geoff’s son_ , a good lad, the same kid they’ve known since _forever_ was a seven letter word.

“Now tell him he should dress up like Santa – “

“I will not,” Liam argues kindly, winking at her as he goes to clean out a few more glasses, shake up another martini for that dizzy Amelia, who’s skipped work – _again_ – down at the music shop in favor of a good footie match and salty chips dipped in malt vinegar.

Eleanor balls up a cocktail napkin to toss at his head and he dodges it easily.  Rick Springfield kicks in – _Jessie is a friend; yeah, I know he’s been a good friend of mine_ – and he laughs at the way Louis’ almost in tune with it, dancing on his stool like they did hours before that one talent competition that they lost with an awful rendition of some Oasis cover that Louis forgot half the words to.

“You’d be a right fit for the part, Li,” Louis remarks, words mumbled around the neck of his beer bottle.

“See, I told you,” Eleanor squeaks with exaggerated hands and a perked up grin.

Liam rolls his eyes instantly, catching the rim of his lip with his teeth and it’s already tender from hours of thinking about Zayn and those glasses and his ink and Five for Fighting – _I’m more than a bird, I’m more than a plane. I’m more than some pretty face beside a train_.

“You should do it, sunshine,” Louis insists with a careless shrug, tipping his bottle toward Liam.  “Some sexy little red outfit with jingle bells.  And we could do a wicked cover of ‘Jingle Bell Rock’ in tight pants with boots and – “

Eleanor snorts, smacking his arm before he can finish.  “This is not _Mean Girls_ and you, my love, are not Regina George.”

Louis sinks on his stool with a lowered brow and idle fingers drumming along to classic rock.

“I should be,” he huffs and Liam can’t bite back the smile that slips loosely over his lips.

He reaches out to thread his fingers through thick fringe, sweeping it out of Louis’ crystalline eyes before thumbing the small dimple in Louis’ cheek.  He’s missed this boy; missed all of them.

His brow lifts at the rough snort from down the bar and he tilts his head to eye Andy curiously, the way he’s hunched over at the bar, nursing a warm shot of gold tequila – the lime tossed off to the side because _‘real men drink shots without a chaser, my sweet Liam’_ – with his gold-brown hair falling in his face.  He’s got a curled smile that rushes out like _envy_ but its dark like _condescension_ when he flicks his eyes over Louis.  He drinks down half of the shot, the midday sun cracking through the windows to highlight the shadows of Andy’s scruff and the dark circles around his eyes.

Liam remembers Andy a lot different when they were younger – buoyant, carefree, in love with life.

He thinks they were all a lot different, not that he’ll ever mention it to anyone but his sisters.

“Love you too Samuels,” Louis calls loudly across half of the bar, saluting Andy with one finger before turning back to Eleanor.  “So no mid-party solo for me?”

Eleanor leans in to giggle into his shoulder, rubbing playfully at his neck.

“Not unless ‘m pissed,” she sighs pleasantly, pressing their foreheads together.  “And you cannot serenade Styles either.  I swear, Lou, don’t think I’m incredibly daft or blind to the way you swoon over that boy.”

Louis gasps, overdramatized and completely _Louis_ with a hand pressed to his chest and a soft scowl.

“I am not hung up over fucking Harry Edward Styles.”

Liam laughs, tossing his soiled rag at Louis while Eleanor steals his beer with a _‘he’s already had one too many’_ while pushing it toward Liam.

“Oh fuck off,” Louis huffs, intercepting their trading of his beer bottle to snatch it back.  He gulps down the last half before mumbling, “Bloody tossers.”

“Are you mad bro?” Liam teases, dragging his knuckles over his grin.

Louis winces.  “Liam, please stop listening to so much Drake.  He’s poor for you.”

Liam giggles, leaning over the bar to shove his fingers under Louis’ beanie to ruffle his hair.

“Have I told you I missed you?” he whispers between Rick Springfield and a collision of Paramore.

Louis smiles sweetly, tilting his head into Liam’s warm touch.  “Write me love letters across all of the city, please.”

Liam wrinkles his nose with another heaved out laugh, shoving Louis down onto his stool.  The pale arc of sunlight brightens Louis’ tan skin, hastens over his tattoos until they glow shiny and he thinks about scribbling rough _O’s_ with a Sharpie to match the three red _X’s_ just below his elbow.

“Anyway,” Louis pipes in, easing an arm around Eleanor’s waist to drag her into his lap, a clumsy move that knocks over her stool and nearly spills half of her ale.  He grins into her hair, dances fingers over her side before he says, “I promised Styles I’d meet him to shop around a gift for his mum.  He’s quite awful at Christmas gifts – “

“There was that one year he bought you a pair of Spider-Man knickers,” Liam points out, strangling half of his seriousness with a bellowing laugh at the _glare_ Louis shoots him.

Louis shakes his head before turning back to Eleanor, smiling.  “Join me?  We could use a woman’s touch and I can’t bear to listen to his rambling about school and his sister’s new camera.”

Eleanor smirks and Liam thinks he can hear her humming ‘ the Bridal Chorus’ under the roar of heavy guitars and a sharp voice from the jukebox.

Andy makes another gruff sound from a distance too short and Louis groans, tapping his fingers impatiently over the wood of the bar like the venomous words on his tongue are a little too sharp to hold in.  Liam reaches out, a calculated move he’s done a hundred times to calm Louis and Louis looks up at him with the flicker of the sun dancing off his eyelashes, lightening his eyes.

“Prick,” Andy mutters, head bowed and Eleanor looks up with a raised brow, wandering eyes.

“Fucking hell, I swear – “

“And we’re leaving,” Eleanor announces with half a dozen pair of eyes watching them.  She tugs Louis from his stool, winking playfully at Liam to soften the ache in his face and her electricity is contagious.

He nods at her, swallows back a rolling giggle at the way she drags Louis towards the door, a hand thrown over Louis’ mouth to muffle the endless stream of four-letter words he’s directing towards Andy.  He manages to offer Andy two more fingers before Eleanor’s elbowing him out the door, mouthing out _‘call me’_ to Liam before she groans at the _‘fucking homegrown twat, get a proper job and a bird of your own’_ and _‘you’re a_ nobody _Samuels, remember that’_ Louis tosses out into the city’s streets before the door swings shut.

Liam folds his arms over his chest, ignores the way Jade’s standing in the kitchen door with a worried brow and quiet frown.  He hauls in a stale breath of air that’s soaked with cigarette smoke from an elderly couple in the corner and unfinished beers on the bar.  He drops his eyes on Andy, shoulders still slumped with a hanging head, all of that hair spread across his face like a reborn Kurt Cobain.

He grabs the Reposado from beneath the bar, forcing out a wistful smile when Andy lifts his chin a little.

“Another one, mate?” he offers and Andy presents him a freshly emptied glass, twirling it between thick fingers with a creased brow.

“She deserves better,” Andy mutters as Liam fills his glass – only halfway this time.

Liam shrugs, capping the bottle and he turns away from Andy before he swallows the shot with tightly squeezed eyes.  He hears the echo of Andy’s gasp, the soft whimper of something dissolving and he holds his shoulders high even with the weight of this city – _his home_ – resting there.

Maybe _he_ deserves better.

He sighs, wrangling together a smile for returning customers and cleans off his hands on a fresh towel before following that feeling into the dark of his thoughts – the ones stung fresh with _regret_ at the heart of them.

**

There’s a bench just at the heart of the city, outside of that landmark of a fountain and far enough from a long stretch of green field that Liam would watch Louis practice for days on with a football and Niall chasing him, that he and Harry would steal away to for hours just for the quiet and the landscape.  Harry would convince him to skip his last class – not that anyone really had to convince him to miss out of Math and Mr. Martin’s lectures on numerical usage – and they would fit themselves together, shoulder to shoulder with knees knocking, on that wooden surface with the sun behind them and a maze of clouds setting the atmosphere alive with tranquility.

Liam didn’t mind that they sat between conversations with little smiles, tangled fingers, and nothing but two fucks and an afternoon to kill before Liam would have to rush off to his shift at the pub.  Just an open book in Harry’s lap – mainly western philosophy though Harry was a complete mess over the fifth _Harry Potter_ book for months – and their legs crossed, Liam’s free fingers tangled in Harry’s soft curls until he begged _surrender_ and bit at Liam’s shoulder.

“I knew he was something back then,” Harry says now, their knees pressed together, Liam’s fingers threading through thicker curls.  He looks up, curious with a dazed smile, and Harry’s staring off to that wide field that’s frosted white with snow and the trees that would shade half of the green are barren and wiry.

Liam hums, a strong need to set aside his steaming cup of Starbucks tea – because Harry has a mild obsession with that place now and Liam blames Louis Tomlinson for that too – that’s hinted with pumpkin spice just to curl his spare fingers around Harry’s.

Harry tips his head back with an affectionate smile that beckons _‘my heart will go on’_ before he adds, “We’d watch him practice for hours until he got it right.  All of his trick shots and silly plays.  I knew it’d take him somewhere.”

Liam nods, grinning.  If anything, Louis was amazing on the pitch.  Fluid like liquid silver, graceful like the stretched wings of a dove.  He was things naturally that Liam wishes he was at full steam.

“Did you wish you would’ve followed him to Uni?” Liam wonders, sipping at his tea while twisting a few curls around his fingers.

Harry shakes his head, an even smile on his lips.  “I am not a puppy, Payno.  My success is not derived from my obsessions.”

Liam snorts.  He wonders if Zayn taught Harry those words, how to use them properly without looking like a complete dick.

“What if he asked you to?” Liam inquires, hissing at the heat of his tea over his tongue.

Harry buries his smile into the thick, thick scarf wrapped twice around his neck and mouth.

“He wouldn’t,” he laughs, curling an arm around Liam’s broad shoulders.  His pink nose twitches and his eyelashes flutter against the _‘what if’_ before he adds, “Lou never makes the first move.  Not with the things he really wants.”

Liam nods with an easy smile.  It’s true.  Not with the University he really wanted to go to or his course of study or even Eleanor.  Even against the bravado and piles of armor, Louis was just a shy freak of nature.

They all were, just wrapped in different forms.

He leans into Harry, inhales the sharp scent of peppermint and fresh pine like those trees that surround the bungalow and small hints of apple and cinnamon from those warm tarts Harry’s mum bakes every Christmas just for Harry – and the others boys too, though Harry hates admitting that – and Harry is so much like home.  Like the life of this city when it burns just a shade dimmer during the rest of the year.

The flakes of snow covering that field look like a giant cluster of stars, Louis chasing a football down it with chapped pinks lips spread into a smile.  He looks amazing, volleying the ball from foot to foot while Josh, who’s in town from Birmingham and the life of a cover band drummer, dashes after him.  Untamed brown hair sweeps with the wind and Liam watches Harry from the corner of his eye – the way his lips quirk up, the twitch of his nose, the crack of gold in those lively green eyes.

He looks in love, not that Liam’s ever heard Harry Styles use a word like that.  Not in this context.

“Give ‘em a run for his pounds Tommo!” Niall cheers from the side, sat on the rim of the fountain.  He’s bundled up in a letterman jacket and high tops, a child amongst a sea of adults as he licks playfully at his ice cream cone.

Liam chuckles, brushes warm breath over his knuckles and leans further into Harry.  He hums along to the sweep of Christmas music echoing off all of the shops at the heart of the city, varied version of ‘White Christmas’ and ‘Santa Claus is Coming to Town’ that distract him from the way Louis bursts across the field like the sun orbiting the clouds.

“I ran into your dad the other day,” Harry mumbles, tucking his chin.

Liam nods, a frown tugging at his lips.  He busies his mind with looking at the tall, tall pine tree behind the fountain.  The people of the city erect a large Christmas tree every year at the start of December, children gathering round to decorate the lower branches with hand-painted ornaments before it’s hung with ribbons, garland, string after string of pretty lights, and a star sitting high, high into the sky.  It’s a wide tree with deep shades of green needles and the kind of sight that draws up smiles everywhere.

“I saw him at the hardware store and – “

Liam swallows on a chuckle, flexing his fingers over Harry’s scalp.  “What were _you_ doing in that store?”

Harry makes a noise of discontent, pressing his fingers firmly into Liam’s shoulder.

“Fuck off, my mum dragged me,” he laughs, brushing sweeps of curls against Liam’s cheek.

Liam sighs happily, rolling his eyes at the way Harry tries to steal his tea for a sip.  He allows it, if only to see the way Harry’s lips curl upward around the cup.

“I hate Starbucks,” he mutters and Liam knocks his shoulder against Harry’s chest.

“Liar,” Liam teases, taking back the cardboard cup.  He takes a slow sip, refreshed, before adding, “You like almost everything Lou likes.”

Harry gasps mockingly before scoffing, “Bullshit.  He’s a freak.”

 _And you’re missing half_ , Liam thinks and he doesn’t muse he’s ever really thought that before.

The way they have always, _always_ been connected.  Two stars linked, a dark sky distancing them but still so bright for each other half-past midnight.

“Anyway,” Harry huffs, rocking against Liam to the rhythm of Annie Lennox in the background, “your dad looks better.  I chatted him up for a bit about the city and his plans for the pub and, I swear Li, he looks _better_.”

Liam frowns, ducking his head.  His fingers squeeze idly at his cup instead of tangling further into Harry’s hair because none of them actually discuss this.  His parents, his life here – without them.

“We don’t have to talk about – “

“Liam,” Harry whines, trying to settle a fond smile to his but it misses when Liam glares at him.  He sighs and Liam dissolves under his touch.

“He just looks better,” Harry whispers through clenched teeth, tickling his cold fingers over the shell of Liam’s ear.

Liam breathes out a quick exhale, closing his eyes against the winking lights from the tree and buries himself in the cold temperature and Harry’s lasting scent.

His teeth chew at his bottom lip, his tongue slicking away the dryness as he watches Zayn standing over Niall, laughing with a hand on Niall’s shoulder.  Half of his hair is tucked behind a beanie, the soft fringe hanging over his forehead and his stubble is a lighter, carving out all of the small features of his cheeks and jaw that Liam failed to notice before –

Not that he was looking.

Those brown eyes crinkle up when he grins down at Niall, spare fingers flicking the ash off the end of his cigarette.  His breath collides with the smoke in a haze of white-grey clouds that sweep around them.  His leather jacket sits a little loose on his shoulders like it’s too big, his plaid scarf hanging slackly from his neck.  He takes a slow haul from his fag, kicking the end of his boot at dirty snow before looking up.

Friction builds in Liam’s chest like his heart is too big, too rapid for his lungs to keep up.  He lowers his eyes slightly, looking up through his lashes and the wonder painted onto Zayn’s face is entrancing.  He bites against the smile that threatens to overtake his lips but Zayn looks at him happily, stroking his thumb over the sections of his bottom lip not caught by teeth.

“He’s a good chap,” Harry hums, pressing his head to Liam’s.  He bites roughly into the skin of an apple, chuckling.  “He’d sit for hours listening to me chat about you blokes.  Always wanted to know more.”

Liam nods mutely, tangling his fingers in Harry’s hair.

“He’s single, you know,” Harry adds with a grin that Liam can’t see but he _feels_ it against his temple.  “I’d say he’s a bit selective about his choice in boys, if you were wondering, but I’ve never really seen him take much interest in anything other than painting or comic books or sleep.”

Liam groans into Harry’s scarf, tugging kindly on his curls until Harry snuffles the cold tip of his nose to Liam’s cheek.  He eyes the skyline for a moment, the contrast between greys and blues like the phases of the moon, but he can’t help stealing glances at Zayn.  He watches the lift of his shoulders when he laughs, the way he and Niall fit like brothers already, the wiry frame that looks breakable but hard enough to shatter Liam.

“I’m not interested in him.”

Liam wishes he could stay silent sometimes because it’s not like Harry _asked_ or anything.  He was just making friendly, meaningless conversation – _trademark Harry Styles_.

Harry nudges him with a gentle elbow, giggling.  “Yeah, I get it,” he says with a smirk, soft curls brushing over Liam’s forehead.  “He’s not really your type, mate.”

“He’s not?” Liam inquires, making a discontented, choked noise because his voice sounded so _interested_.

And Zayn really isn’t his type, with the smoking, leather jacket, too tall hair, and spun caramel eyes that Liam gets lost in every half second.

Not his type at all.

“You like the quiet type or the ones you can spoil,” Harry notes with a sloppy grin, munching into his apple.  He ticks fingers over Liam’s neck, eyeing Louis for a few warm breaths that spill out in wavering clouds of heat.  “Zayn is too straightforward.  He knows what he wants.”

Liam frowns, his brow wrinkling.  “You think that I – “

He swallows the last of his words, nearly choking on them as Zayn walks up, still huffing on his cigarette.  The smoke fogs Liam’s vision but he can still make out the half-smile on Zayn’s lips, the way he stands over them with one hand in his pocket and the other flicking away dead ash.

The snow starts up again, in small doses like New Year glitter.  It sticks to their coats, small flakes clinging to the bits of Zayn’s exposed hair.  It pinwheels in front of Zayn’s slanted grin and Liam thinks of kissing away the cold from his lips, tasting nicotine and bitter snow and warmth.  He imagines Zayn’s tongue could do magical things against the icy blow of the wind.

The lift of his lips are a bit cocky when he looks down on Liam, then Harry, then Liam again.  He clears his throat, flicking away the cigarette before his lips twitch into something sweeter.

“ _The First Avenger_ or _Batman Begins_?” he asks around that smile.

Liam blinks up at him, paused for a breath or two before he smirks.  He twists his fingers in Harry’s hair, suddenly wishing it was Zayn’s before replying, “Batman, but who doesn’t love the heroism in Steve Roger’s tale?  They’re both pretty sick origin films though.”

Zayn snorts, nodding.  He blinks rapidly to shake the snow from his eyelashes, his grin lifting sideways.

Harry hums nonchalantly – _have yourself a merry little Christmas_ – before tightening his arm around Liam’s shoulders, pressing his warm smile into Liam’s cold cheek.

Zayn bites absently at his bottom lip, sliding his free hand into his other pocket, rocking on his heels like he wants to say something but he doesn’t.  He watches them, cautiously, sinks a little in his own mind and Liam blinks at him like he’s a mystery to be solved.

Still, he’s not interested.  Zayn will be gone soon and holiday romances are made for Natalie Portman films, not his life.

“Louis is quite ace out there,” Zayn remarks somewhere in the in-between of frosted snow and the kicking breeze and Liam’s uneven breathing because, fuck, Zayn looks _incredible_ beneath this blanket of soft white.  Zayn grins down at the field, Niall laughing merrily as he joins Louis and Josh with a thunderous howl and bad knees.

Harry smiles, nodding along to the swell of more Christmas music.  He jostles Liam a little before adding, “Liam is quite brilliant too.  I recall he would give Lou a good match out there.”

Liam smiles around the steam of his tea, casting his eyes downward when Zayn smirks down at him.

“Are you?” Zayn asks, his voice lifted with wonder.  His lips curl around the edges and his fingers dance off his stubble before he inquires, “You the sport type?”

Liam shrugs while trying to battle back the rush of blush stinging his cheeks.

“I like a good challenge,” he says and his next breath is strangled by his own embarrassment, by the way Zayn’s eyes widen with interest.

Zayn licks at his lips, overconfidence alive in his eyes before he says, “I’ll have to remember that.”

Harry groans out a laugh into Liam’s ear and Liam slouches on the bench, lowering his eyes into the leftovers of his tea.  He doesn’t respond – or shift too much to hide his erection because, fuck – and the heady scent of tea and winter winds do little to discourage the way he wants to show Zayn things he’ll remember when he treks back to Uni.

He blows soft breath over his tea instead, coils around himself when Harry leans in to whisper, “Just give ‘im a chance, Li.  Promise he’s not that bad.”

And Liam knows better than to listen to any advice offered to him from Harry.  He stares off into the field instead, meets eyes with Louis in a pleading manner.  He just wants stupid jokes, his mates, and anything but this encompassing feeling that he could tell Zayn all of his secrets.

**

Two sets of perfectly blue eyes are meeting his halfway across the bar and he sighs loudly at the peeking smiles offered to him.

They’re dangerous – Niall and Louis – together and Liam’s known that since he was fifteen.  Completely unexpected and fucking _dangerous_ with their wild imaginations, constant need to lose themselves in the beat of mischief, the way they cling to each other stupidly like the lifeline between them is all red and blue.  Liam almost regrets letting them build on this friendship through the years until it became lethal.

Incidental and amusing, but still lethal.

“C’mon Payno, do it,” Niall begs before finishing the last of his beer and grinning up at Liam sloppily.

“Yeah, Leemo,” Louis adds, saluting Liam with his shot of Irish whiskey because Niall and Louis have taken to trading off their favorite drinks to pass the time, “just end your own misery and shut down shop.”

Liam sighs again, turning his eyes on Harry for support.

Harry smirks and shrugs and thumbs through his Twitter feed instead.

He never was good at arguing Louis down, Niall either.

“It’s only nine o’clock boys,” Liam mutters, drying off a few clean glasses before refilling a glass of red wine for a half-pissed Phoebe three stools down.

“And this place is,” Louis starts before Niall finishes, “ _dead_.  Dead on arrival, mate.  Mutilated.”

Louis nods with a proud smile.  “Good choice, Nialler.”

Niall shrugs with a laugh, tickling fingers up the small of Louis’ back.

“No touching,” Harry warns with his eyes lowered and the tiniest of smirks.

“Does not say _‘property of Harry E. Styles,’_ ” Niall declares with a loud laugh, reaching past Louis to squeeze Harry’s shoulder.

Harry shrugs him off with a giggle.  “Check his left arse cheek or, better yet, on the inside of his thigh just below his – “

“Fucking hell,” Louis groans, leaning into Harry rather than away and Liam watches them with narrowed eyes.  There’s still no definition to this thing between them but Liam’s caught the stares, the whispered fingers up a spine, Harry kissing Louis sweetly near the jukebox while their fingers crossed trying to pick a new song, when they thought no one was looking.

It’s the kind of slow build Liam sees in silly romantic comedies and that’s all they are, really – their own broken definition of _stupidly in love_.

“Come on, Payno,” Niall says a bit insistently, distracted from the way Harry and Louis smile at each other with bright eyes and an urge to touch each other.  “No one will mind if you close up a little early.”

“But my dad,” Liam starts, his other words slick against his tongue before he sighs.

Louis rolls his eyes, steals the warm shot that’s been sitting in front of Zayn for too long now and gulps it in one take.

“It’s not like he’s making any quid right now anyway.  Same crowd, different night,” Louis gasps out around the burn of tequila and he scrunches his nose at the way Harry tries to run comforting fingers up the nape of his neck.

It’s a Wednesday and Liam knows Louis is right.  The pub is devoid of life around this time during the week.  Just the same half-strangers that only know him as _Geoff’s son_ and sink onto their favorite stools for hours around the same three beers until the acidic taste of responsibility is burnt off.  No one really touches the top-shelf stuff or bothers to drink excessively because it’s only the middle of the week and there’s work tomorrow, another day of breathing in the poor economy.  Just the sparse customers littered throughout the pub with half-empty glasses, frowns, and a game of basketball on the telly filtering through the music with white noise and static.

Paul left two hours ago and Liam knows his father is at home sleeping, preparing for the early morning deliveries that’ll take him hours to sort through tomorrow.  Even Jade abandoned the kitchen early for a date with Jordan and the promise of cheesecake over a candlelit meal.

He wipes down the bar, chewing the inside of his lip while Niall looks at him with pleading eyes, Louis’ mouth pulled up into a smirk like he knows what Liam’s going to do.

Liam sighs roughly, tugging thick fingers through his even thicker hair before turning his eyes on Zayn.

He’s quiet, leaning on his elbows while watching Liam.  He hasn’t said much since arriving with Harry an hour ago, just little conversations with Niall about school or filtering through the many questions Louis has for him because Louis has always been endlessly curious – or nosey, though Louis chooses _inquisitive_ as his de facto word of choice.

Zayn rubs his lips against his knuckles before plucking the cigarette that’s been resting behind his ear all night from its position, sliding it between his lips so easily and that thought sticks to Liam’s mind, even as Zayn lights his cigarette.  There’s a lifted grin on Zayn’s lips like he knows Liam’s thoughts and he shades his blush with his sleeve and towel before turning back toward Louis.

“And what will we do?”

Louis’ lips quirk, his lashes batting rapidly like he knows the meaning of innocence.  It tightens Liam’s stomach and he can make out the sound of Zayn’s slow chuckle above the Robbie Williams humming off the jukebox.

“We’ll do what good lads do,” Louis smiles out, leaning forward with his fingers interlaced to form a bridge for his chin to rest on.  “Trust me, it’ll be a smashing time.”

**

Liam knows better than to trust Louis Tomlinson.

Before he can think it all through, Niall and Louis are ushering the remaining, lingering customers through their last sips of something warm and bitter while Harry helps gather up the dirty glasses.  Zayn’s humming along to Usher while clearing off the tables, wiping down the bar with a smile and a few swaying shoulder bumps for Liam.  Liam grins back, capping half of the bottles before hip checking Zayn and laughing into his shoulder at the abashed look Zayn shoots him.

They clean up most of the glasses and dishes while Niall sweeps and Louis clicks off half of the lights except for the ones over the bar, the moon shining pretty pale squares over the room through the windows.  The blinking lights on the little Christmas tree in the corner glow like angel’s wings and everything outside of the bar is soft gold, mild silvers, a few slivers of cascading blues from the frost and thick, falling snow, and the moon peeking from behind heavy grey clouds.  It’s the kind of sight that holds Liam’s attention from behind the bar for a little too long because he misses Niall and Louis whispering to each other, Harry grinning as he ducks from behind the bar to the jukebox, Zayn settling onto a stool with a lit cigarette and the kind of smile that threatens to ruin Liam.

Louis slips out of his ugly Christmas jumper – the one he wears every year even though he’s much, much older and it’s starting to get a bit snug – with this thick hair starting to curl at the ends before he grins at Liam over his shoulder.

“You look like Satan,” Liam notes, folding his arms over his chest, trying to look imposing.

He knows he’s not.  He’s tough, yes, and very capable of crushing a few bones via all of his boxing lessons as a teenager, but they’ve never felt intimidated by him.  He’s never given them a reason to.

“Thank you,” Louis sings out, playing with the sleeve of his the Who t-shirt, “I consider all of you my minions.”

“What an honor,” Niall laughs out, reaching behind the bar to grab a bottle of Green Spot with a shy smirk.  Liam smiles back, sliding him a rock glass before Niall adds, “Are you gonna let him in on it or what Lou?”

Liam shifts his brow upward, arms still folded with squared shoulders and a hint of doubt flickering through his eyes.

Harry laughs from the corner, fingering through a few selections on the jukebox before settling on Def Leppard – _Step inside, walk this way. You and me babe, hey, hey_ – and the sound of electric guitars and pounding drums floods the room.  The lights of the Christmas tree highlight his stealthy grin, the rise of his cheeks, the wild abandon in his green eyes that Liam’s always dreaded, instinctually, but sort of welcomes to the hidden messages in Louis’ dark eyes.

“We’re just gonna have a night in,” Louis announces, head already nodding to the clatter of music – _Take a bottle, shake it up_.

Zayn’s smirking, playfully biting on his lip as Harry slides behind the bar and passes him an opened bottle of Cumberland Ale.

“A night in,” Liam repeats slowly, rocking on his heels.

Louis nods with bright eyes, stealing glances at Niall already refilling his glass with more whiskey, eyeing the way Harry’s singing along, loudly – _Pour some sugar on me_ – while littering the bar with bottles of vodka, gin, some off brand stuff that’ll burn on the way down.  He snickers, pushing the fringe out of his eyes before thumping his fist on the bar.

“Come on, Li,” Louis pleads with sweet eyes that are just a put on.  Nothing about Louis is _sweet_.

Liam purses his lips and he knows better.  Fuck, he knows so much better than to do this.

It’s not that his father is a complete arse about inventory or the way some of the workers sometimes drink from the bar without paying, but this is different.  This is his mates rifling through the liquor, soiling already washed glasses, leading Liam down a path he’s always avoided.

And, fuck, it feels like the kind of freedom from monotony that he needs.  He _craves_ it.

“It’ll be okay, Leemo,” Harry whispers into his ear, his smirk pressed to Liam’s cheek.  “We’ll clean it all up.”

Liam snorts, shaking his head.  “You lot will be too pissed off your arses to do that.”

“But we’ll promise to _pretend_ like we can,” Niall assures him, downing his half-filled glass before pouring another.

“I’ll help,” Zayn says under the screech of guitars and clattering drums, his smile so soft and sincere that Liam doesn’t think he can escape it.

The lights cascade downward, stealing over Zayn’s eyes until they’re a honey-gold that Liam falls in love with.

He laughs to hide his smile, the way his heart pounds almost too loud, and he’s chewing on his lip with a nod because, yeah, he’s missed them too much not to.

Louis lets out a howl, reaching for a bottle of Sauza while Harry snaps open a few more beers, sliding them across the bar before handing Liam one.  Liam crowds a grin into Harry’s shoulder before taking his first sip, trying to disguise the way he looks on Zayn so fondly but he fails and Zayn smirks up at him with scrunched eyes and fingers tapping to the rhythm of Liam’s completely unsteady heart.

Somewhere between Louis’ suggestion of _shots, shots, shots_ over the cadence of Michael Jackson in the backdrop and that lightheaded feeling he gets from two too many beers, they’re bundles of laughter and classic rock and understated joy.  Harry and Niall are dancing on top of the bar, knocking over empty bottles and laughing into each other’s necks while Louis cheers them on, nestled into Liam’s side with Liam’s arm resting heavy around his shoulders.  Zayn’s grinning from across the bar with a cigarette between his lips and fingers swirling the amber tequila in his glass, eyes lingering on Liam until he’s a mess of blush and heat and the sudden need to drag this boy into the office for a sloppy blowjob and breathless kisses.

“Complete idiots,” Louis laughs, mild stubble scratching roughly along Liam’s neck.

“Our idiots,” Liam puts in with a smirk, taking a long sip of his beer before catching Zayn’s eyes plastered on his birthmark, the way his throat constricts for a swallow.  He offers him a small wave just to startle him, to disturb his otherworldly coolness that Liam’s kind of falling in love with even though it’s blatantly cocky and uncalled for.

“You’re a shit dancer Haz,” Louis calls out as Niall and Harry sway manically to the Rolling Stones, fingers twined together for support.

“And you’re an awful snogger,” Harry shouts back with a grin, tipping his head back before wrapping his lips around the mouth of a vodka bottle.

Niall blurts out a laugh, tilting his own head for a swig from his bottle of Jameson.  He tips it toward Louis and Liam in salute and Louis harks out a snicker that bellows above Mick Jagger’s voice.

Louis reaches out to smack at Harry’s skinny calf, frowning.  “I’m brilliant at snogging.  You didn’t complain a few nights ago when I – “

Harry giggles, shaking his head until his swirl of curls fall out of place.  He’s quick to flick his head, drag lazy fingers through the thickness until they look distorted and perfectly _Harry_ -like.

“Your _fond_ is showing Lou Bear,” Harry sighs, smiling down at him.

Louis narrows his eyes, lips pressed into a pout, and Liam muffles his laugh against Louis’ neck as Harry blows him kisses.

Niall secures a hand around Harry’s waist, twisting him clumsily until they’re face to face and grinding shamelessly to the pulse of Aerosmith – _My, my baby blue. Yeah, I’m thinking about you my, my baby blue. Yeah, you’re so jaded. And I’m the one who jaded you_.  They sink into each other, Niall curling his fingers into Harry’s hair, their noses scrunching up with laughter until they’re wailing together like Steven Tyler, with far less charm.

Louis slumps against Liam, rolling his eyes before smiling at the way Niall offers up Harry a taste of whisky that spills down Harry’s chin, over his button-up shirt that’s undone halfway to show off all of his shiny ink.

“Our idiots,” he repeats, Liam nodding with a tight smile.

He looks across the bar again, does his best to wrap his already fuzzy mind around the way Zayn smiles, the light of his eyes, the thick scruff he keeps scratching nervously at and Liam thinks he looks so different under the dim lights.

He looks kind, gentle, young.  Liam wonders if his expressions are this soft under the moon, beneath a layer of cold sheets, his body pressed so firmly to Liam’s.

It’s distracting until Louis’ shrugging him off to climb on the bar and dance up behind Harry, sandwiching him with Niall until they’re a hurricane of uncoordinated limbs, roaming hands, and shared swallows of vodka, whisky, beer.  Liam laughs into his beer, Zayn smirking with his cheeks bunched up and they all fall into harmony for the lick of guitars echoing off the walls.

They trade bottles across the room until Liam’s giddy and grinning.  Their voices wail through Kings of Leon, chant halfway through Queen, and they’ve learned to cover each other up when they fumble through incoherent lyrics with bursts of laughter and _louder_ voices.  They find a harmonic sound for the pulse of _come together, right now, over me_ before shifting into something a little too low for their voices, though they try to match Brendon Urie’s _I think I’m ready, I think, I know I’m ready, I know_.  They race each other through shots of something clear, shiny beneath the bar lights and drain the juices from lemons and limes until their throats feel raw from singing, not the alcohol.

Liam smirks up at Niall strumming an air guitar all through Jimi Hendrix, bits of Lenny Kravitz as Louis does shots of silver tequila off of Harry’s belly, licking salt from his neck and stealing a lime from between his lips.  Harry howls, shaking curls from his face while Louis licks away remains of coarse salt from his collarbone, a hand pressing gently against the shallow of Harry’s back to steady him.

He takes a long, slow sip of London Pride, smirking at Zayn as he huffs through another cigarette, reciting lines of poetic injustice along with Janis Joplin – something about _me and Bobby McGee_ that Liam never learned but always hums along to.  He licks at his own smile before nudging Louis away and hopping smoothly across the bar, a trick he’s probably seen a dozen times in films but he’s just coordinated enough not to fall crashing to the floor when he does it.

“Sick,” Zayn coos around a breath of smoke and Liam falls into the stool next to him, snatching away Zayn’s beer before he can finish it.

He lifts his shoulders for a small shrug, curling his lips around the bottle to take a swallow.

“Did I impress you?” he wonders, scrubbing the back of his hand over his lips to wipe away the remnants of tequila and rum.

“Were you trying to?” Zayn asks, leaning in a little.

Liam trembles, his cheeks lit up a fascinating pink that draws up a snicker from Zayn.  Patient, slow fingers trace the outline of his cheek and Liam’s close enough to smell the smoke, sweat, quiet cologne that Zayn wears a little too often.

Liam wants to know his scent without that layer of spiciness and winter air.  He wants to taste Zayn’s skin until he knows it _biblically_ and that sends a shiver down his spine rather than up and he can’t quite wrap his mind around that.

Zayn’s fingers play at the collar of Liam’s plaid shirt, dipping lower until dull nails scratch the nape of his neck, and Liam whirrs along with Fall Out Boy buzzing through the speakers.

Louis clumsily sets up five empty shot glasses on the bar, Harry hovering behind him with his chin hooked over Louis’ shoulder.  He uncaps a fresh bottle of Bacardi 151 and Liam balks at it, frowning before unconsciously careening into Zayn’s fingers – his touch is so gentle, assuring against the back of Liam’s neck like he knows all of the pressure points, the spots that have Liam’s eyelids fluttering and his mouth falling open for a silent moan.

He watches Louis messily pour the shots, half of the alcohol spilled across the wood rather into the glasses, and Harry grins into the nape of his neck, chants of a ‘ _yes, yes, yes’_ flooded from Niall’s lips as he flops down onto the stool next to Liam.

“This is a bad idea,” Harry laughs, nuzzling his cheek to Louis’ as Louis reaches over the bar to nick Zayn’s lighter.

“Remember the time Lou almost set Liam’s hair on fire,” Niall chuckles, sea salt blue eyes glassy and heavy from the whisky.

Harry sputters a laugh into Louis’ neck and Louis looks up with a grin before Liam groans, scrubbing a hand down his face.

“I didn’t know hairspray was so flammable,” Louis puts in with a small shrug before cautiously lighting each shot.

“So started the Buzz Cut Era,” Harry declares with a smirk, his dimple punctuated by the lift of his lips.

Harry calls it the _Buzz Cut Era_ because Liam was forced to shave off nearly all of his hair thanks to Louis and a rather awful breakup with Danielle that left him in an awkward space, vulnerable, and so desperate to be anyone but himself.  Liam likes to refer to that period as the ‘ _I Hate Girls and Louis Tomlinson Equally Era’_ but that’s a mouthful and Harry’s always been clever with things like that.

“Buzz cut?” Zayn hums and Liam misses the part where his fingers slide from beneath his collar, down, down until they’re sketching out the thick, dark chevrons on the underside of Liam’s forearm.  His nails scratch and Liam shivers and _lost_ is the proper word for this feeling he’s in.

Harry heralds a laugh, tightening an arm around Louis’ waist when he goes for limes instead of lemons.  He gives a disapproving huff before turning his smile towards Zayn.

“Remember those pictures I showed you from a winter ago?” Harry inquires and the rush of pale pink blush that attacks Liam’s cheeks is far from misleading.

He wishes Harry was close enough to punch, or hug because Harry is so desperately in love with all of them that he probably shows off stolen baby pictures of each of them to his University mates.

“ _Oh_ ,” Zayn chokes out and his smile is like cracked sunshine over his bitten raw lips, eyelashes fanning over his cheeks to hide the shyness.  “You were quite fit.”

Louis raises his eyebrows suspiciously and laughter bubbles drunkenly from Niall’s lips, a sweaty hand reaching past Zayn to ruffle the thick sections of Liam’s hair.

“He was right weird looking,” Niall chuckles and Harry bites at Louis’ shoulder to shudder his giggle.

“You _are_ right weird looking,” Harry teases, sliding careful fingers across Louis’ neck, fitting himself into an impossibly small space to get closer, closer to Louis.

“Haz showed me some pictures,” Zayn says under a smoky rasp, fluttering those eyelashes until all Liam sees is their spidery length, the way they cast shadows that highlight every color splashed across the brown.  His lips are parted like there are words that could fit across his tongue but he can’t quite grasp them and Zayn whispers, instead, “I don’t think you’re weird looking.  Or plain.  Or, I dunno, anything other than – “

Louis clears his throat loudly, drowning out the last word that’s probably an adjective that Liam will never quite understand the meaning of but, yeah, he wants to.

He wants to close the gap between him and Zayn for a kiss or just to inhale the last of Zayn’s smoke or just to count out the constellations behind those eyes.

Louis’ holding up his burning shot between two cautious fingers, grinning at the way the center of the flame is a brilliant azure and the tip of it sways from side to side like a perfectly choreographed waltz.  He eyes each of them distantly until they all reach for a shot, spinning the amber liquid between careful fingers.

Louis smirks, leaning back into Harry, easy with his grip so the liquid doesn’t slosh over.  “To me mates,” he drums out, his words slightly slurred before he drops his eyes on Zayn, “and you took Malik.”

Zayn lifts the corners of his lips, offering up a small nod before raising his glass a little higher.

Harry smudges a kiss to Louis’ cheek and Louis swats him away before adding, “You lot are my – “

“Don’t say home,” Niall grumbles out, eyes fixated on the way the flame starts to dim over his shot.

“Don’t say my heart,” Liam warns with a kicked up smile.

“Don’t say life because we all know you live for Vans and Starbucks tea and Topman,” Harry teases, scrubbing the end of his nose against the nape of Louis’ neck.

Louis chokes out an aborted noise that’s high-pitched and rather comical before he offers each of them a middle fingered salute – Zayn included – while lowering his shot a little.

“I was gonna say you lot are my financial support system once this football and University thing doesn’t work out but since you’re a bunch of tossers anyway,” Louis gripes with a mild scowl and the clattering of laughter that follows his words overrides the stream of .38 Special in the background – _I’m so caught up in you, little girl, that I never did suspect a thing_.

Harry swallows back a laugh before tugging Louis by the waist until he’s pressed firmly to Harry’s chest.  He hovers his chin over Louis’ shoulder, quickly blowing out his flame before barking out, “To my boys.  Tradition is for wankers.  We are – “

“Family,” Niall tacks on with a lazy smile.

“Heart,” Liam giggles against his knuckles.

“The beginning and the end,” Zayn adds, teeth catching the edge of his bottom lip when four sets of eyes fall on him.  There’s a wave of blush like the streak of the ocean across morning sands and Liam tiptoes fingers across the small of Zayn’s back for the warmth, the pleasure too.

“The beginning and the end,” Harry repeats with a soft smile, huffing out a breath to extinguish his flame.

They all follow suit, one by one, and the Christmas lights and tips of the moon still streaking through the window paint Harry’s bright green eyes a harsh emerald before he tosses his shot back.  They clink glasses, hot liquor tipping over and the flood of something metallic, heady, acidic burns Liam’s throat raw as he swallows down the shot.

Louis gasps for air like it’s his first breath, Niall slamming his glass on the bar with pinched eyes and a wrinkled nose.  Harry coughs harshly, Zayn biting roughly on his bottom lip to hold back his need to gag and there are tears heavy and thick that line Liam’s eyes as he pants through the slow sizzle of it all.

“ _Awful_ ,” Louis rasps out, thumping a fist against his chest.  “Absolutely horrid.”

“Never again,” Harry adds, small tears slicing down his flushed cheeks.

Niall laughs, gruff and forced, before saying, “But we’re gonna do another one in about an hour, yeah?”

Harry and Louis trade looks with crumpled brows and Zayn snickers lowly, fingers still learning the pattern of Liam’s ink and Liam doesn’t deliberately shift a little closer to offer up more skin, to sink into Zayn’s heat and his smile and the way those eyes are scrunched up with his smirk.

**

They’re sat around that table in the corner that Liam absolutely loves and it feels so much like a beginning without a definite end that Liam has to bite at his knuckles to conceal half of his loose grin.  The Christmas tree is still half-decorated but the lights wink off their nearly empty glasses and the bottle of well vodka Zayn stole from behind the bar.  There’s an untouched bottle of Jagger too, but Liam refuses to let Louis open it because they can all still taste the dense sting of Bacardi on the center of their tongues and _‘sobriety Lou, you need to know its meaning’_ slipped off Harry’s helpless lips almost an hour ago when the sky turned a rapturous black and the stars looked like well hung snowflakes.

They wash away vodka shots with double shots of peppermint schnapps – again, Zayn’s choice – and laugh through stories they’ve told a million times, but Zayn’s only heard half of them from Harry.  And Liam swears they haven’t missed a beat with Harry taking a piss at Louis for _‘the summer of skinny jeans and no socks’_ and Niall curling up against Liam to laugh through that awful dye job they all gave him that one spring and Zayn listening intently with broad eyes, a lifted smile, and a raised brow while Louis goes through each phase of Liam’s haircuts – _‘And I will always be a fanboy for the_ curls _, Li, I swear it.’_

“Lighter,” Niall begs with a slow, dragging smile as he rolls the end of a spliff between his fingers.

Louis’ half-resting in his lap, a secure arm curled around his waist while Harry hangs off a chair with the last fourth of the Jameson bottle waiting on him.  He’s sleek with his movements as he prepares the joint – a one-handed trick that Liam thinks he learned somewhere between classes at University – while humming appreciatively to the Eagles in the background.  Louis’ got fingers roaming through fluffy, white-blond hair that looks dirty like sea water and days in the sun and Harry’s etching invisible words to Louis’ spine, dazed glow to his eyes.

Zayn bites on a grin while flicking his lighter across the table, leaning back into his own chair with an arm slung around the back of Liam’s.  He tips over another half-shot of peppermint schnapps into Liam’s empty glass, tilting his head back until the roar of the Christmas lights paints him scarlet and ivory and mild hints of harlequin.

“You’re amazing at this,” Harry sighs happily, his spare fingers wrapping around the neck of the green bottle to dump out another glass of whisky.

Louis scoffs, knocking Harry back some with a wild arm.  “He’s not,” he protests, even while Niall’s lighting one end of the joint, “He’s a shit roller and we all know it.  Remember when he first tried the shit?”

“Smoker’s cough,” Harry and Niall say together with wide grins and roaming eyes.

Louis rolls his eyes with a heavy sigh.  “Fucking bullshit.”

“Oi, fuck off Lou,” Niall grumbles, tickling fingers up Louis’ side until he’s unsettled in Niall’s lap.  “Must we mention how you always ‘ave Max roll for you’s whenever you buy from him?  Who makes their dealer roll up while he’s selling quality shit to ye?”

Liam grins at the thickness of Niall’s accent – a prerequisite of too much liquor that they’ve all laughed at since Niall was sixteen and a complete lightweight.  He involuntarily leans into Zayn and pretends not to notice the way their ankles brush under the table, their feet knocking to – _Please come home for Christmas. If not for Christmas, by New Year’s night_ – and the cool vamp of Don Henley’s voice.

“It’s ‘cause he’s a diva,” Harry teases, clumsily reaching out to rumple Louis’ already out of place hair.

Louis snorts, curling into the feel of Harry’s fingers.  “’m not, you fuckbag.”

Zayn giggles, stealing Liam’s glass to take a small sip.  “Fuckbag is the new way of saying ‘ _I love_ – “

Louis garbles out a sound that freezes Harry and Liam leans forward to crush his smile against the sleeve of his shirt and the thump of his heart.

“We don’t use that term,” Niall admits after taking the first hit, clouds of smoke filtered through his indolent smile.  His voice is tight like he’s holding some of the smoke in his chest, a cloud of amber circling the table before he pinches the tip to pass it off to Louis.

“Only when we’re talking about family,” Louis adds, huffing in a long drag that leaves him coughing but giggly.

Harry nods along, dropping his eyes.  “Or one of our mates.”

Zayn scrunches his brow and Liam avoids looking at any of them.  He knows he’s the only one who ever attached such a sentiment to someone other than them or his mum and sisters.  He’s not quite sure it was a daft mistake when he declared it to a room full of people, on his seventeenth birthday, while smiling at Danielle.

In hindsight – as Louis reminds him ceremoniously once a year – he should’ve made sure she was sober and, you know, feeling the same.  Maybe the days later, when she broke up with him because he was too devoted and she was too interested in a career, it wouldn’t have stung so awfully.

The smoke crowds the table in small floating wreaths as Louis takes an extra drag, waving off the way Niall pinches his thigh to hold in the clouds with a dazed expression.  His eyelids droop a little before he passes the spliff to Harry, mouth slowly falling open to gradually exhale out the smoke with a grin.

“Fucking prick,” Harry laughs into Louis’ shoulder before hauling in his own three sharp breaths of the shit and they’ve trained Liam enough to sniff out the good stuff and the low-grade shit Andy would always smoke while hanging out the sill of Liam’s bedroom window.

Niall never touches the cheap shit – a rule of thumb they’ve all agreed on, except for Liam, of course.

“You want’a hit?” Zayn asks as Harry bypasses Liam to stretch his arm out toward him.

Liam sinks in his chair a little, shaking his head and he closes his eyes to the echo of their laughter, the knowing smirks they probably all wear.

“Payno doesn’t touch the stuff,” Niall remarks, downing half of Harry’s drink with a burp and a shiny smile.

“Takes such good care of his body,” Louis sighs with a rasp to his voice.

Harry sideswipes his curls into place before adding, “Out of all of us, he’s always been the good kid.  Reckon he wouldn’t bother with alcohol either if his second kidney never healed.”

Liam flips them all off with a put on smile, his cheeks a dense shade of pink that glows a pulsing salmon under the low lights.  He drags his fingers over the table, avoiding Zayn’s eyes until he _can’t_ and his teeth pin his bottom lip when he finds narrowed, examining gold eyes on him like he’s a rare exhibit in an art gallery.

Zayn nods at him, taking in a slow inhale that looks so practiced.  He doesn’t choke or cough or even flinch as the smoke flutters out through his nose, the open slots at the side of his mouth.  It halos around him, silver and gold, before he sniffs and eases the joint between Niall’s free fingers.

“You’d be pretty good at giving head,” Louis jokes as Niall takes a quick drag, lips wrapped tightly around the unlit end until the cherry sparks a wild tangerine hue.

Niall rolls his eyes, flipping him off.  “Haz is the one with the pretty lips.”

“And long fingers,” Zayn adds with a chuckle.

Liam takes in the scraping noise of a chair dragging over the hardwood and he fights through the tension when Zayn is _closer_ , closer than before.  Fingers scratch up the nape of his neck, the lengthy hair there, over his scalp and he finishes off the shot Zayn poured him to quiet the fever underneath his skin.

“Harry, despite physics and pop culture and common stereotypes, would _not_ be the top in our love story,” Louis insists before slipping the joint between his lips.  He chokes on the first pull, breathing through his nose until his chest fills out for a second drag.

Harry whines and Niall suffocates his laugh in Louis’ chest.  Liam smirks, Zayn’s fingers tripping over the clipped sides of his head, his thumb gently outlining the shell of Liam’s ear.

“I wouldn’t swallow either,” Louis puts in for the fuck wonder of it all, spinning an empty rock glass between his fingers.

Harry smacks his arm while tipping his head back for a long haul.  “Spitting is _gross_.”

“So are you two,” Niall whispers with a shallow grin, reaching out to sketch out the outline of a dove on the back of Zayn’s hand.

Liam tenses a little and _possessive_ sits uncomfortably on his tongue until it cuts his gums like shattered glass.  He looks away, focuses on the ink scrawled over Zayn’s collarbone, the expanded wings, a set of pretty red lips staining the top of his chest.

“But I could eat you out, right?” Harry wonders, a sticky cough thundering out of his chest and Harry was never good with this.  He’s not a smoker – not by trade like Niall or Louis, possibly Zayn – but he participates because he’s a complete hipster, a self-proclaimed douchebag, and the legal definition of Zen in every language.

“’m not a girl, Haz,” Louis moans, the sound obscene over his tongue and Liam cringes at the way Harry’s eyes burn a flame green.

“No, not like that,” Harry laughs around the smoke still slipping past his pink lips.  He licks at them absently, reaching up to tangle his fingers in wild brown hair.  “I mean, if I went down on you, y’know _back there_ , it wouldn’t be you being a bottom, yeah?  You’d just be like, like letting me take care of you in other places.”

Louis looks contemplative and Niall squeaks, knocking Louis half into Harry’s waiting lap.

“Where the fuck is this chat going?” Niall fusses.

“Down south, obviously,” Zayn jokes, pulling in another slow burn of weed.

Liam takes in the way his eyes look heavy, the crawl of his smile, the flare of his nose as he breathes out the smoke.  He holds the joint like a cigarette, using his thumb to knock off the ash, his spare fingers still learning the curve of Liam’s skull, the soft portions of his hair.  It arcs down Liam’s spine like the frost on the windows, rinsing over his skin and through his blood system like that heady smoke already has.

“Fuck all of you,” Niall laughs, the sound a bit choked from all of the smoke and liquor and they’re all lost on this spark between them.  “And Haz,” he says with a warning tone, stretching across Louis to slap Harry’s roaming hand, “make sure not to use your teeth.  Lads hate that.”

Louis arches an eyebrow, turning toward Niall and his flushed cheeks.  “Care to share?”

Niall shakes his head quickly, snatching away the spliff from Zayn’s fingers and he sucks in a long breath of smoke to avoid Louis’ line of questioning.

“Teeth aren’t bad,” Zayn throws in and Liam knows it’s a distraction, a moment of reprieve that Niall sinks into.  He’s looking at Liam rather than Louis or Harry, his thumb moving meditatively slow over Liam’s neck, pressing to his birthmark.

Liam shakes when Zayn leans in, lips a ghost over his cheek, cutting off that thick flow of oxygen Liam was getting used to.

“When used in the right places,” Zayn adds, his voice husky and dry with smoke.

He startles at the grin Zayn presses to his skin, curls his fingers over his thigh to subdue the need to turn his head just a little, capture Zayn’s lips for the kind of snog he’ll dream about for months.  He finally wraps his lungs around normal breathing when Zayn pulls back with a dragging laugh and he watches Zayn slip a cigarette between his lips from the corner of his eye, pressing teeth into his lip as Zayn steals back his lighter to spark up his Marlboro.

“Always the responsible one,” Niall teases from across the table, Louis tangled in the space between him and Harry, arms and hands everywhere like touching each other will keep them afloat while lost in their high.

“Daddy Liam,” Louis half-jokes with a stuttered laugh.

Harry nods, giggling and trying to perfect his exhales but he’s still shit at it, his cloud rings loose and they dissolve somewhere in the heavens next to the shut off lights and tacky ceiling.

Niall takes an extra puff of the joint while Zayn heaves through his cigarette, blue eyes dizzy and unfocused.

“I wish I was half as good as you Li,” Niall puts in, his voice sweet with smoke and unconscious sincerity, head lolling to the side to rest on Louis’ shoulder.  “You’re gonna make some bird or chap a good husband.”

“Fantastic shag,” Harry snickers, sipping slowly at his warm whisky.

“Some chap’s perfect mate,” Louis sighs, his words clouded with smoke and excessive alcohol and something oddly _Louis_ -like.

“So responsible,” Harry hums, cuddling to Louis while Louis hides a laugh in those thick curls.

“Gonna be the first of this lot to get married and have a bunch of kids,” Niall announces, toasting what’s left of Harry’s whisky to Liam.

Louis nods quickly – or as best as he can while curled around his high – before lifting his chin to expose a wide grin.  “A whole litter of little devils, that Liam Payne.”

“To Leemo,” Harry hiccups out, lifting the nearly empty bottle of Jameson to clink with Niall’s glass, “a much better sport than the rest of us, a hard worker, and the best mate you could ever ask for.”

There’s a roar from Harry and Louis as they share sips of warm alcohol and dizzy grins.  Liam ducks his head, scrubs a hand over the blush attacking his cheeks, and bites at his lip until it’s raw and the skin breaks.

It’s not meant to be condescending or mean.  It’s what they always do – remind Liam of who he is, who everyone sees him as.  Who he will always be.  He’s just that kind, dopey, responsible chap that takes care of everyone and follows all of the rules and doesn’t stray from that blue collar lifestyle his father and his grandfather lived.  He’s a small town boy; the living, breathing version of the cliché.  No one resents him for it but _regret_ wades on his tongue and he knows it’s not supposed to feel like oblivion but it does in so many varied contexts.

He pushes away from the table as they all fall into dumb laughter, friendly touches, and a nearly burnt out joint that’s passed around for another two rounds.  The scent clings to the air, sticks to his clothes, and he slides easily behind the bar to clean up the mess they’ve left behind.

His tongue sits between gentle teeth as he scrubs down the bar, drops a few dirty glasses into the dishwasher, capping some of the bottles while Louis tells that story about accidentally kicking a football into Harry’s nuts for the millionth time – and Niall laughs loudly at it every time like it’s brand new.  His lips quirk a little at the sound, the way it echoes off the wall to the sound of the B-52’s – _And heavy equipment. We’re in the basement. Ten, twenty, thirty million dollars ready to be spent_.

He blinks up with a little twitch to his lips when Zayn slides across the bar – far more suave than Niall, with more finesse than Louis – off the velocity of one arm.  He’s grinning with a cigarette tucked behind his ear, the wiry muscles in his arms giving definition to his ink and a soft glint to those animated eyes.

Zayn holds up an already rolled spliff between his thumb and forefinger, smirking behind it with a pink tongue rolling slowly over even pinker lips.

Liam folds his arms over his chest, a soiled rag tossed over one shoulder.  “I don’t smoke,” he says, his voice a little rattled from the pulse of his heart in his throat.

Zayn snorts, lifting one shoulder for a shrug.  “I know,” he says back, his voice thick but devoid of that earnest anarchy from earlier.  He slides forward some, no, a _lot_ and he’s got Liam pinned to the other end of the bar with one careful hand resting on the counter behind Liam’s back.

“Is it because you don’t like to,” Zayn whispers, his tongue licking out to leave his lips even shinier, tempting, “or because you don’t know _how_?”

Liam swallows, lowering his brow into a scowl that his lips mimic.  He tips his chin upward defiantly, dropping balled fists to his side.  He considers shoving Zayn back, punching his shoulder for emphasis but he never manages to.  Not when he’s trying to school his breathing, settle the raging fire just beneath the surface of his skin.

He wants to touch him.  Fuck, he wants to kiss him and hoist him upward until he’s straddling Liam’s hips and all Liam knows is the shape of his cock against the back of Zayn’s thighs and the softness of those pink lips.

“Have you ever?” Zayn asks, his voice still raspy from the smoke but it’s spun with something kind, gentle.  His thick eyelashes flutter, nearly knock against Liam’s as he inclines a little closer.

Liam balks at Zayn’s smirk, the way his eyes are focused on Liam’s lips rather than the stern set of his jaw.

He breathes out a harsh breath, inhaling the rough scent of earlier smoke, the Marlboro’s, the bitter alcohol, peppermint schnapps, that fading hint of cologne.  He breathes in _Zayn_ and, fuck, it leaves a thick taste at the back of Liam’s throat that he doesn’t mind.

His fingers unconsciously settle on Zayn’s hips, keeping him far enough that he won’t feel the heat radiating from Liam’s crotch, the twitch of his dick.

“No,” he finally bites out, lowering his eyes to watch Zayn’s tongue drag over almost chapped lips.

The corner of Zayn’s mouth quirks, baring white teeth, the edge of his tongue.

“Let me,” Zayn whispers, sliding the tip of his joint between his teeth, “just let me, okay?”

Liam doesn’t move.  His fingers dig into Zayn’s hip until Zayn whines lowly – his back arches at the noise and his chest shivers at the way Zayn’s skin feels when his fingers slide under the hem of his shirt – and he nods slowly because words weigh down his tongue.

“Okay,” he says, mouthing _‘but I’m scared’_ and he’s thankful Zayn’s eyes are on his nose, the quick flutter of his eyelashes, the pink staining his cheeks.

Zayn lights the other end of the joint with practiced fingers, tossing the lighter onto the counter next to the clean glasses.  The room spins – because of the alcohol, because of the lack of oxygen, because Zayn smiles around the blunt like he could break Liam with just those calm eyes – and Liam’s skin catches fire when Zayn’s fingers cup his chin.

Unused fingers pull the joint from between Zayn’s full lips, lowering it while Zayn holds in the smoke with a quiet grin.  Those long, spidery eyelashes fan out, beat against a defined cheek as Zayn gradually moves forward.  Their hips meet, careful and intended, but he’s too distracted by Zayn’s calloused fingers.  He’s lost on the way Zayn’s eyes say _trust me_ and the gentle lift of his chin until they’re at the right angle.

His eyes stay open for the first few seconds, when Zayn’s lips meet his.  Determined fingers bite at his skin, tug until his jaw falls open and Zayn’s lips part just slightly to blow sweet, hot smoke between his.  Zayn breathes out the smoke through his nose as well, encompasses Liam in a thick ring of something grayish and blinding.

He closes his eyes off of instinct, the burn too much.  He squeezes them shut, listens to the calm flow of Zayn’s voice under the drum of his too loud heart – _Breathe it in, babe, inhale, inhale, that’s it, you’re doing so good_ – until he feels something working through his bloodstream.  He feels the rush, the spark in the hollow of his chest as Zayn presses his lips a little firmer to his, soaks the darkness of his mouth with heady smoke.

Liam swallows, breathes in through his nose until all he can taste is smoke.  His lashes beat against his cheek and Zayn fits his tongue just over Liam’s teeth, flicking at his upper lip as a taunt that has Liam’s fingers curling around his hipbone for an anchor.  Bon Iver floats in the background – _That secret that you knew but don’t know how to tell. It fucks with your honor and it teases your head_ – and he feels lopsided, numb to everything but the slow flow of Zayn’s raw bitten lips.

“More?” Zayn asks when he pulls back, a dazed smile pressed to that mouth that Liam can barely make out around the haze of parting smoke.

He nods slowly, tries to settle the push-pull of his chest.  His thumb strokes over ink against Zayn’s hip, head tilting to admire this boy with the suddenly soft eyes, gentle curved smile, heavenly cheekbones.

Zayn snorts, lifting the spliff to suck in more smoke and Liam meets him halfway this time, parts his lips for smoke and an artistic tongue that numbs Liam’s thoughts for far too long.  It floats off his tongue in ways words can’t – _more, please, don’t stop_ – and he patterns his breathing off of Zayn’s, the hypnotic stroke of his voice against Liam’s parted lips.

“Slow,” Zayn whispers, still pushing in smoke, still working a deliberate tongue until Liam can’t help the way he pushes back to lick across the flame.  “Gentle now, not too much.”

“Not enough,” Liam gasps, the smoke clogging his lungs, the music layering over his already searing skin.

His fingers work backwards, inching beneath Zayn’s shirt, finding the dimples in his back, mapping out the dip in his spine.  His feet shuffle on the floor, part to make more room for Zayn to sink into and the soft brush of a tongue over the edge of his mouth siphons his high for a brief second.

“Doing good, babe,” Zayn mumbles, words colliding with his teeth.

Liam nods, or tries to but he can’t with Zayn’s forehead pressed to his.  He merely inhales more smoke, whimpers when Zayn turns his head to suck in more heady clouds from the blunt before breathing it roughly across Liam’s face.

“Like an angel,” Zayn giggles and Liam flutters his eyes shut, tries to imagine that face beneath him, between his stupid _Toy Story_ bed sheets back home with that old headboard creaking every time Liam fucks a little harder into Zayn.

Fingers skim down his chin, a thumb stroking at bristly stubble until Liam pulls back.  He can make out the pink of Zayn’s tongue pressed to the back of his teeth, the wrinkle of his nose when he half-grins, laughs lowly.  Something works through his blood, creases his synapses, buries him beneath the clouds and he stutters back against the hard edge of the bar.

“Mind if I do it a bit proper?” Zayn inquires, inching toward him again.

Liam sucks in a hard breath of air, palming at Zayn’s hip to hold him in place.  He needs distance, _space_ and he’s doing his best to let his mind catch up with the erratic rhythm of his heart.  He catches the small frown on Zayn’s lips, the way his eyes search over Liam’s face like he’s fucked something up.  And he hasn’t, really, but Liam knows better.

 _He’ll be gone before you know anything proper about him_ , he thinks, pinching at Zayn’s skin until he stops trying to get closer.  He ducks his head, cheeks afire, lowering his eyes to the worn wood of the bar.  He scratches dull nails over it, tries to shake the trashy weed and the alcohol and the way his cock is pushing at the zip of his jeans.

“A little dizzy,” he lies, biting down on the shy smile he offers Zayn.

Zayn eyes him, nervous fingers sketching over Liam’s collarbone, undoing a few buttons on his plaid shirt before he gradually nods.

“Right.  First time and all,” Zayn says, swallowing slowly.

“Yeah,” Liam laughs out, the sound harsh and foreign but he hangs onto it to drag fingers over the nape of his neck and shuffle his feet over the hardwood beneath.  He coughs around another laugh, thumping a fist against the hollow of his chest and he feels Zayn start to move away.

 _He’ll be gone before you_ –

Liam unravels against impulse and curls thick fingers around Zayn’s wrist, drops his eyes to the way Zayn licks nervously at his lip, teeth gripping a corner of flesh.  His head is still spinning, his vision unfocused and glassy but he manages to find Zayn’s pulse, slip his fingers downward until they slide between Zayn’s.  He tangles his around Zayn’s, tugs him those last few steps until they’re side by side, holding hands.

He doesn’t look at Zayn, refuses to, but he falls victim to his own smile.  He swallows against the thick taste of smoke in his throat, the last bits of Zayn still on the edge of his tongue.  He feels Zayn’s calloused fingers working over his knuckles, his thumb pressing to the pulse of Liam’s unrestrained heart.  There’s blush smudged over his cheeks and his brow is slick with sweat and Zayn’s nails scratch out promises to his skin.

“Don’t say anything,” he begs, lowered eyes still on the bar as he idly wipes it down for a distraction.  He sneaks closer to Zayn’s warmth, brushing their shoulders as Zayn carefully lines up all the clean glasses over the bar.

They waste away in silence with brief touches and Liam’s heart somewhere in his stomach.  He refuses to release Zayn’s hand all the while.

**

Liam loves the bungalow.

It’s almost like a cabin in the woods, close enough to the edge of the city that it’s bracketed by a thick hedge of trees and blanketing snow.  It’s not close enough to Liam’s own house to walk to like Louis’ mum or Niall’s dad’s but it’s far enough from everything that he feels safe and composed and in another world there.

He steals his dad’s old, rusted pickup whenever Harry’s in town just to drive there – it’s a shit truck really because it sticks gears and only cranks out half the amount of heat it used to and the passenger window only rolls halfway up but the radio still picks up top forty stations so he hums along to Katy Perry to forget the bitter cold sinking into his bones.  He always lets Louis ride shotgun with Niall wedged between them because Louis’ insanely territorial and Liam swears Louis took a wee on the cracked leather once to keep Niall from switching seats.  He doesn’t mind because Niall always snuggles close to keep them both warm, sings loudly to the Killers even though Louis is quite obsessed with Brandon Flowers’ earlier stuff, and smacks Louis’ hand away when Jay-Z comes on.

They always huddle together for the twenty minute drive that feels like an hour because Louis complains about needing the loo and Niall’s nearly always hungry before they make it halfway out his drive.

Liam knows Anne only comes out to the bungalow around the holiday season to stock the cupboards with bags of crisps, cartons of milk, and boxes of cereal for Harry.  She leaves all the numbers for pizza delivery and lays out mounds of sleeping bags for the other boys, tacking little personal notes to the sandwiches she’s made for them, leaving the liquor cabinet unlocked, and Robin has fresh firewood delivered before Harry’s even booked his ticket for the train.

Its cold days like this, where the snow is falling thickly but it’s making brief, unscheduled flights across the wind to lay a heavy sheet over the roof and the glassy surface of the pool out back that Liam succumbs to childhood reverie.  He presses the tip of his nose to the cool pane of the glass door leading to the backyard where the pool is, the deck, the wooden chairs decorated in thin ice and coats of snow.  He lays his palm to the frosted surface, smiling at the small birds still lingering around to peck at nothing, the squirrels chasing across white fields, the pine trees that are dusted in something heavy and ivory.  He can’t see much past the trees but he can still make out that one tree they carved all of their initials into, that thicket of bushes Louis would hide in during a game of hide-and-go-seek, the lake in the distance that’s frozen over and still used for makeshift hockey games he’s still too fearful to participate in.

It’s become a tradition to drive out the week before Christmas to decorate the small pine tree Anne’s left behind, a dozen small presents for Harry and Gemma circling the base like a tiny embrace.  Liam can feel the small wave of heat from the fireplace, the wood crackling and groaning like the opening of a thunderstorm.  It blankets soft fingers across the nape of his neck, the embers dancing up the chimney along with the thick, black smoke.

He glances over his shoulder with a smile, watches Harry busy himself in the kitchen with an apron – a frilly yellow shade with ruffles around the edges and it’s probably Anne’s – on and his curls tangled behind a bandana.  He’s buzzing along to Boston – _Well it’s more than a feeling, when I hear that old song they used to play. And I begin dreaming_ – on that old radio in the corner with flushed cheeks and wide eyes and his mum’s cookbooks all folded open across the counter as he tries to replicate her vegetable stew.  He drags the back of his wrist over his forehead to swipe away the sweat from the open oven and the low simmering fire from the stove and he does a fancy little shuffle that’s so Mick Jagger that Liam has to bite down on a giggle.

Niall’s slouched on that comfortably lumpy leather couch Anne has had since Harry was ten with the one cushion that sinks all the way in, the arms falling inward like the crest of a waterfall.  His thick sock-covered feet are propped on the end table with his tongue caught between his teeth and FIFA playing over the large flatscreen.  His ugly green jumper rides up a little to expose pale, pale skin and he looks so cozy in his gray sweats with fluffed-out hair and swift fingers across a controller to win another match on Harry’s Xbox.

“Oi, needs more marshmallows,” Louis fusses from the kitchen as Harry smirks, hip checking him away from the Santa-covered mugs of hot cocoa he’s put together for them.

“Sugar addict,” Harry teases, smacking a wet kiss to Louis’ forehead before stirring in peppermint candy canes to the steaming cups.

Louis groans, dusting all of the mugs except for Liam’s with powdered sugar and an avalanche of thick marshmallows that topple over the rim.

“You have no taste,” Louis argues softly, biting playfully at Harry’s shoulder before snatching away his own cup to sip at.

“No taste,” Harry repeats with a smile, pinching salt and pepper into his boiling pot, inhaling the steam with a lifted grin.  “I like you, don’t I?”

“You have no choice,” Louis tells him, a long tongue slipping out to lick away foam and excess chocolate from his mouth.  “I’m quite loveable.”

“Fucking right you are,” Niall laughs from the couch, throwing a fist in the air for emphasis.

“See, even Nialler agrees,” Louis grins, dipping his tongue into the surface of the hot chocolate for another quick taste, hissing at the heat.  “It’s inevitable.”

“You being _celibate_ for the next two weeks is inevitable,” Harry jokes, stirring the contents of his pot with a long wooden spoon before tearing off basil leaves, a few sprinklings of mint for the aroma.

Louis lets out a whining protest and Harry shuffles him out of the kitchen with a swift smack to his bum and a smirk.

“Do blowjobs count?” Louis calls over his shoulder, kicking open a few boxes near the tree to peer at the decorations they’ve all seen a dozen Christmases before.

“Handjobs count,” Harry teases, doing his best to roll his hips to Shakira and failing miserably.  He bites at his cherry lips before winking at Louis, adding, “And so does sexting so don’t bother waking me up later on tonight asking what I’m wearing and whether I prefer spit or lube.”

Louis hums an appreciative noise while Niall falters his thumbs across his controller.

“I think Horan just popped a boner at that thought,” Louis chuckles, sidestepping Niall’s kicking foot to place his mug on the ledge of the bookcase near the fireplace.  He tugs the sleeves of his snowman jumper over his knuckles, smiles into the knit material while looking at Liam.

Liam grins back, shaking his head.

“I swear, Tommo, I liked you much better when we got off to big tits and bad Japanese porn together,” Niall groans, shifting further into the cushions to find that dent of comfort he was once in.  He crosses his feet at the ankles and grins at the screen when whoever he’s playing online misses an easy goal.

“The best wanking material isn’t even the real life stuff, Leemo.  It’s all animated,” Louis insists and Liam rolls his eyes immediately, leaning back against the glass pane until the winter on the other side pricks his skin.

There’s a sharp hint of aerosol and paint sifting through the air and Liam knows it’s from down the hall where Zayn is spray painting some mural over a large canvas in the spare bedroom.  He only knows because he snuck around the bungalow when they first arrived to find that scarf Harry nicked from him two Christmases ago and he hung in the archway of the room for minutes to watch Zayn freehand sketch over the white material, slash varied colors over the wall until he found the right combination of yellows, blues, and greens to create something wild.  He’s been at it for an hour now with his lip between his teeth, fingers dipped in pinks and reds, shaking up can after can to swirl and dash colors everywhere.

Liam thinks of a hundred words, settles on _majestic_ until it smudges over his tongue like a masterpiece.

“You’re using too much of the stringing stuff,” Harry complains around the lip of his mug, folding an arm across his chest while watching Louis toss colors across the bare branches of the Christmas tree.

Niall looks up briefly, lifting his brow, curling his lips into an inquisitive smile that Liam’s always been fond of.

“It’s called _tinsel_ , Harry m’love,” Louis declares, still hurling bursts of silver and purple at the tree, “and you can never have too much, okay?”

“You _can_ ,” Niall laughs out, scratching bitten nails at his neck.

“It’s called overkill, Lou,” Harry huffs, turning back to his fizzing pot to stir it again.

Liam muffles a snicker against his palm, the hardwood icy beneath his bare feet as he scurries into the living room to join Louis.  He grabs a string of popcorn garland, circling the tree with it while dodging the flurry of blue and orange tinsel that Louis adds to the already dramatic rendition he’s frosted the tree with.  He drags his fingertips over the prickly needles and inhales the sharp scent of sap before stepping back to watch Louis add the paper snowflakes his twin sisters make every year for the tree.

“Perfect,” Louis beams, taking a few steps back to admire some of his work with an arm curled around Liam’s waist, his other hand holding his hot chocolate.

Liam blurts out a laugh, reaching over to stir the melting candy cane into Louis’ mug.  He rests his temple against Louis’ untamed hair, grinning.

“It’s very Tommo,” Liam chimes softly, the beat of Louis’ fingers on his hip matching the stutter of the music coming from the kitchen – _It’s the most wonderful time of the year_.

“Very,” Louis agrees with a small nod, swallowing down half of his sugary drink.  “We need lights and ornaments, though.”

“And an intervention,” Harry bellows, rocking his head back and forth to the trumpets and chimes and orchestra filling out the bungalow.

“Suck it Styles!”

“At least I _swallow_ ,” Harry barks back with an echoing laugh and Niall tosses his controller in the air with a groan, throwing an arm over his eyes while sliding further into the space between cushions.

“He says he swallows,” Louis half-whispers – because he’s taken to the Harry Styles method of talking softly, which is not at all – into Liam’s ear with a grin, “but I haven’t found out yet.  Waiting until Christmas to see if he’d like me to stuff his – “

Liam garbles out a noise, trembling next to Louis before shoving him off.

“You’re absolutely insane you donut,” Liam breathes out with a manic smile and wide eyes.

Louis shrugs nonchalantly, slurping on his hot cocoa before turning back to the tree.  “We definitely need lights.”

It takes Harry nearly half an hour to unearth the three boxes filled with tangled lights, two boxes of hand-painted ornaments all done up by Anne and Gemma and Harry.  Louis kicks at the boxes for a while, trying to decide between glass bulbs and Styrofoam ones knit with green and red thread while Liam pretends not to notice Niall adding leftover rum from last Christmas to his red plastic cup of egg nog.  Harry sips at his hot chocolate, flipping through a newspaper while his stew boils and Liam instantly ties Louis up in a string of red and blue lights that shine off his halogen blue eyes like neon comets.

“You little shit,” Louis smirks, hands tied in green wire with winking lights cascaded around his body.

“You were always shit at cowboys and Indians,” Liam teases, flicking the end of Louis’ nose with a body-shaking giggle.

“And you were always ace because you spent your whole childhood pretending to be Woody from _Toy Story_ ,” Louis argues with a thick smile, twisting his limbs to try and escape his Christmas prison.  He falters and falls back on the couch instead, nestled to Niall with his lips buried into the cushions.

“Score one for the Payner and all of Santa’s little helpers,” Niall sighs, kneeing Louis away as he starts up another game.  “Think Haz is into bondage?”

Louis squeaks, trying to free an arm or a leg from his twisted cage of lights and wires.

“Fuckbag,” Louis muffles into Niall’s shoulder and they play fight until Louis’ knee catches Niall’s balls and the back of a pale hand smacks a little too roughly across Louis’ highlighted cheek.

Liam leans against the bookcase that’s littered with the greats – Twain, Swift, Rice, a few works by C.S. Lewis because Anne loves to read and Harry loves to pretend he’s intellectual – while swallowing around earthy hot chocolate, licking at his lips to taste the faint hint of warm spice like cinnamon or dashes of nutmeg.  He smiles because it’s a blend of his and Harry’s mum’s recipes with the spices and the marshmallows and melted chocolate bars covering the near bottom.  He steadies his eyes on the way Niall curls into himself while playing FIFA, Louis manages to break halfway free of the lights to hop comically toward the kitchen and a set of waiting arms via Harry.

Something hitches in his breath when Zayn strides into the room with a wide grin, narrow hazel eyes that are flecked almost green today instead of brown, a loose button-up Oxford that looks like it belongs to Harry – it hangs off his shoulders and the cuffs kiss at his knuckles and the collar is too wide, exposing Arabic and the tip of a red lip – and tight acid wash jeans that slide filthily off his narrow hips with shredded holes around the knees.  He steals a mug of hot chocolate from the counter while Harry drags Louis toward that low hanging mistletoe in the archway of the kitchen, Liam turning his eyes away just as soft, plaint lips rush over Louis’ defiant ones.

He can still hear the muffled moan, the wires snapping in the background and he wonders if that’s Harry or Louis’ low voice begging for just a little more.  It doesn’t matter and he hopes he doesn’t have nightmares about Christmas lights slathered in lube later on.

His eyes trace over Zayn as he moves giddily into the living area.  His cheeks are bunched up with a grin that crinkles his nose, scrunches his eyes softer just around the edges.  His stubble is a little thinner, heavier near the bottom.  He’s got a black beanie pushed back over soft, almost product-free hair – like he’s slept in it and forgot to wash it out and Liam’s fingers twitch at the thought of pulling through the thickness, testing its give – and his fringe hangs wildly over his forehead.

“Vas happenin’ holi-dorks,” he laughs out, hopping over the back of the leather couch to settle in next to Niall.  He drags colorful fingers – there’s traces of aureolin around his pinky and ring fingers, spots of lawn green up his middle finger, smudges of shocking pink around his thumb and forefinger, blots of tangerine like hieroglyphics around his knuckles – through Niall’s dye job until the tips of white-blonde hair match the spectrum of a rainbow.

Niall’s too engrossed in the game to care and Zayn’s laughing that raspy sound that plays like melodramatic theme music in Liam’s dreams.

Zayn reaches for the second controller, interrupting Niall’s game to join in and he’s shit at it, really, but he does it all while sipping at his minty hot cocoa and grinning.  He fits against Niall’s side with a head on his shoulder and Liam’s not certain they were ever missing a final piece to this until now –

And Zayn slots himself into spaces in Liam’s heart where vacancy felt permanent and the breath of winter solidified any need to fill them.

Liam hates how he’s more than a little preoccupied by the way Zayn is actually fortuitously beautiful with those high cheekbones, that scruff, the reach of those eyelashes like a fallen angel’s ebony wings.  He misses the sound of Louis’ giggles silenced by fervent kisses from Harry or the kettle whistling from the stove or the way Zayn whines for Niall to change games because he’s horrid at football and Niall may or may not be cheating.

“Malik, you’re lucky your face is so unbelievable,” Niall teases, elbowing his side before reaching for another remote to switch from FIFA to Grand Theft Auto.

Zayn grins around the lip of his cup, knocking his knee against Niall’s.  “Shut it.”

“Seriously, the ladies must love those lips,” Niall snickers, wriggling closer to Zayn again, stealing sips of his cocoa and licking chocolate from the corner of his mouth.

Zayn shrugs, biting on a corner of his lip.  “I dunno.”

“Must find you exotic and mysterious and we all need a Zayn Malik in our lives, I swear,” Niall adds as All Saints floods the room – _I’m moving, I’m coming. Can you hear what I hear? It’s calling you, my dear, out of reach_ – and they fall against each other so easily.

There’s a moment of slow breathing and the casual lift of eyes through thick lashes before Liam remembers he’s _staring_ at Zayn.  He swallows against the backbeat and his chest expands on – _I can hear it calling you. I’m coming, not drowning, swimming closer to you_ – while the corners of Zayn’s mouth quirk up.

“Not really giving much attention to them,” Zayn mumbles, his accent sharp and so hypnotic, “but, you know, I guess they like, I don’t know, like what they see.  More interested in other things.”

Liam stutters through a long breath, sipping at the last of his drink and straying his eyes from the careful pull of Zayn’s smile.  He’s somewhere between _orbit_ and _gravity_ and he drags his toes over the hardwood until the cold flickers off and he can see without those blurred edges around Zayn’s wiry frame.

Zayn cocks his head sideways to admire him for a second, ignoring the game and almost dying on screen before he lifts his eyebrows like _don’t be afraid_ and Liam shakes his head because, yeah, he already is.

He attunes his mind to the Tony Bennett swaying from the kitchen and Harry is a horrible lead but he manages to spin Louis around the tiled kitchen floor for a few beats before Louis shakes free, laughing.  Blush ruins his cheeks and those blue eyes beam like Christmas morning and every piece of Liam wants something like that.

One day, not now.

But definitely _one day_.

Liam takes another quick glance at the tree, smiling affectionately at the way it’s a complete disaster – and completely _Louis Tomlinson_ – before pushing the sleeves of his thin white Henley up to his elbows.  He knows the others will never clean up half the mess Louis has left behind in the wake of _Christmas Tree Horror Part Nine_ – a nickname Harry provided while stirring his stew and adding shredded slices of old bread to thicken the contents – and he’s used to this.

He’s used to being the one who’s there to clean up their mess, even when he’s not sure how to clean up his own.

That old, jazzy melody and thick voice makes way for something that Liam knows so familiar on the radio.  It stirs inside like warm fresh apple tarts, lays like silk over his skin and he smiles.  He taps a bare foot along to the folk beat and thinks of his mum – _In the swirling, curling storm of desire, unuttered words hold fast. With reptile tongue, the lightning lashes towers built to last_ – baking fresh baskets of bread when he was a kid, playfully dancing around the living room with his father and sisters, the snow outside a sleepy teardrop over this quiet city.  It hugs around him like the eyes of the moon and he sucks on his bottom lip until that tide cracking over his heart becomes a soft swill.

He shuffles over the icy hardwood floor with bouncing feet and almost makes it to the first box Louis kicked into the corner an hour ago before nimbler fingers reach out, securing around his wrist and he falls toward gravity in an absent form.  He stumbles backward, his balance lost in seconds, and he lands on the couch – no, in Zayn’s _lap_ – before he can piece it all together.

Liam stutters against an inhale, eyes wide, twisting his neck to look back at Zayn.

Zayn keeps his eyes on the telly, spreading his legs until Liam’s body sinks between them with thighs bracketing his hips.  He adjusts around Liam, shuffling his arms and securing them around Liam’s elbows until he’s caged in by this wiry frame and he feels… _safe_.

Liam feels safe and warm and an adjective he knows he could trouble with but doesn’t because Zayn tangles them together until he can fit his hands in Liam’s lap with his controller, still playing GTA like nothing’s happened.

Niall twitches an eyebrow upward, an inquisitive curl to his lips before he shrugs and turns back to the game, killing a few people on the screen like an afterthought.

“Stay,” Zayn mutters like a warning, his arms curving inward like the wiring of a cage as he tries to keep up with Niall on the screen.  His tongue is caught between white teeth, concentration crumpling his brow and Liam listens – _I did not come to steal. This is all so unreal. Can’t you show me how you feel now? Come on, come talk to me_.

His cheeks flush, teeth reaching for the edge of his bottom lip and he sinks into Zayn’s embrace without much of a struggle.  He doesn’t crane his neck to see if Harry and Louis are watching but his thumbs twiddle in his lap and his feet shuffle back and forth like he’s anxious.

Like a child in Santa’s lap and – _wait, no_.

“You’re not wearing that stupid plaid today,” Zayn whispers and his tone spreads hot blush across soft, already warm cheeks.  There’s a scrape of laughter in the back of Zayn’s throat before he adds, softer now, “Not that I mind.  It’s just not… _you_.”

Liam swallows, eyes on the telly, watching Niall murder character after character and he can’t quite make out the music on the screen, but he can _feel_ Peter Gabriel and his haunting voice – _if you’d just talk to me. Unblock this misery. If you’d only talk to me_.

“And you smell nice,” Zayn mumbles, tilting both of them a little sideways to adjust his aiming on the screen and Liam thinks it’s quite comical that Zayn thinks shifting his actual body will make his game play any better.

That scarf he adores so much and has just managed to get back from Harry’s collection of stolen items – _‘Borrowed, Liam, they’re all_ borrowed _, I swear’_ – is loosened around his neck until he can feel the sharp edges of Zayn’s stubble pressed to the tendons in his neck.

“You look quite gangster.”

Liam drops his chin and tries not to focus on the way his lips tremble into a broken smile.  He’s sweaty palms, cold feet pressing over Zayn’s bare ones until they’re both warm, a raw bottom lip, and he turns his eyes to watch the snow outside rather than the shameless grin on Zayn’s lips.

The sun spills over the backyard, leaving the thick blanket of frost a glittery expanse of daylight stars and Liam watches the birds chase the dark clouds to something new.  His heart follows that same rhythm, completely involuntarily, of course.

**

Later, Harry passes out bowls of still steaming stew with matching mugs of Earl Grey made bearable by half-shots of cinnamon schnapps – courtesy of a rather giggly Niall Horan – while the fire crackles a little weaker, sizzling like frying bacon and licking out little flames that keep the room incredibly warm.  They nearly beg off _A Christmas Story_ for _Bad Santa_ until Louis plays the ‘ _House Rules’_ card with a hiked up grin.

“What the Tommo wants,” Harry starts and Niall groans immediately, Zayn chucking a pillow halfway across the room at Harry’s bed of curls.  He looks up with a guilty grin and deft fingers sneaking under the waistband of Louis’ stupid skinny jeans and Liam wrinkles his nose at Louis’ triumphant grin as the film queues up.

Niall builds a castle of pillows and sleeping bags and bundles of soft tissue paper from unwrapped presents on the floor that they sink into.  Liam manages to untangle himself from Zayn before the others say anything – though Louis gives him a weary look and Harry smiles like he’s accomplished something – to settle on the floor with his back resting against the couch and Niall pliant between his spread legs, a head of blonde hair pressed to the inside of Liam’s thigh.  Zayn curls around himself somewhere near the fireplace – too far but close enough that their fingers almost bump in the sea of blankets – and sips at his tea quietly, in his own world like he doesn’t belong.

And he _does_.  It’s scary and foreign and Liam’s not even sure it’s possible because Andy never fit into their group, neither did Max or Maz.  Eleanor did but only by default rather than something organic, natural.

But Zayn fits, that space between the ribs where everything feels tender but built for safe breathing.

Louis is in awe three minutes into the film, laid on his stomach with his feet kicking back and forth in the air and his chin resting on his knuckles.  He’s wide blue eyes and an even broader smile, tea forgotten and stew slowly turning cold.

His lips quirk, gentle lashes sweeping against his cheeks before he utters, “I want an official Red Ryder, carbine action, two-hundred shot range model air rifle!”

Liam snorts at the way Harry immediately mouths, _‘No, you'll shoot your eye out’_ with the blue of the telly shading his eyes forest.  He drags tender fingers through Niall’s floppy hair and _this is home_.

This room, these boys, this swaying mixture of endorphins and _paradise_ is the word that rests so lovely in the middle of his tongue.

“I used to masturbate to Keira Knightley in _Love Actually_ ,” Niall admits halfway through the film and midway through his second cup of tea.

Louis’ eyes go wide before he snaps his head in Niall’s direction, rolling onto his back like a helpless seal.  “Wait, _what_?”

Harry chokes on a mouthful of tea while Zayn shakes his head, snickering into that stretched out collar of his Oxford.

Niall shrugs, sitting up a little with his chin resting on Liam’s knee.  “She was hot.”

“Still is but that’s beside the point,” Harry clarifies and Louis kicks at him in spite.  “But what do you mean you’d, you know, wank off to her in that film?”

Niall grins, pushing up on his elbows.  He takes another swallow of tea – the one drenched in a little more alcohol than the last cup – before replying, “She was good masturbation material.  Like, she was quite easy to get off to.  Ruined at least three different socks to that one.  Perfected that one trick where I reach behind my leg and pretend like – “

Louis shrieks, hiding behind a slope of duvets while Harry falls back with a manic laugh, feet kicking wildly and Liam’s cheeks flush before he loses composure too, giggling while dragging friendly fingers through Niall’s hair.

“What in the actual _fuck_ Horan?” Louis calls out with a scowl.

“Come on, mate, you mean to tell me you never wanked off to that film?” Niall challenges.

“Fuck no,” Louis spits out with a slack jaw and knit together eyebrows.

“At least not to one of her scenes,” Harry puts in, shrugging when Louis’ victimizing eyes fall on him instead of Niall.  “We all got off to the scenes where they were making porn, you know it.”

“Did not,” Liam snorts, tossing a small pillow toward Harry and he catches it with large hands and an even grander smile.

“That’s ‘cause you didn’t figure out how to wank off properly until you were _sixteen_ Payno,” Harry declares.

“Seventeen,” Louis inserts, waving Liam off when he whines a protest.  “But still – are you all sick fucks?”

“Didn’t you used to get off to _Pretty Woman_?” Niall wonders, arching an amused eyebrow at Louis.

“Oi, don’t pretend like that part where she was on her knees for him wasn’t sick,” Louis argues with little heat behind his tone.  “That film was ace.  _Flash Gordon_ too.”

“Idiot,” Harry chuckles lowly, crawling that small space between them to curl around Louis with a chin on his shoulder and fervent hands surfing beneath layers of clothes to find more skin.

Liam smirks, looks up from the supernova of bleached blonde hair on Niall’s head and his pale skin and permanently red cheeks with a fondness he knows he hasn’t touched in too long to find a set of brown eyes licked citrine by the flames of the slow dying fire.  His fingers play along the collar of Niall’s jumper and his heart steadies itself to an unconventional cadence as he watches Zayn nip at his lip, fiddle with that zippo lighter between his fingers.

Zayn clears his throat softly, stretching slowly before maneuvering to his feet.  “Need a smoke,” he says, tugging his beanie over the bits of flat hair that were already exposed, “be back in a few, dudes.”

Liam looks away as Zayn bounces over the hills of pillows and blankets and boys, focuses on the trail of his fingers through Niall’s hair rather than Zayn slipping on his combat boots or the way he fishes for something else to wear before grabbing Harry’s old trench coat and Louis’ scarf.

He sits for minutes once the door slides shut, letting in a damp gush of cold air that has Harry and Louis clinging to each other and Niall reaching for a handful of afghan.  His limbs fidget, his eyes trace the room, and his tea is too cold to drink.  He listens to Louis quote line after line, even after Harry drags wet kisses across the expanse of his neck and Niall kicks him – three times for consistency.  Liam waits until Niall rolls off of him to drown out the sound of Louis’ poor Ralphie imitations with increased volume before he pushes to his feet and scampers over the icy hardwood.

“Need a beer Leemo,” Niall calls out and Louis adds a, “and sweets, don’t forget something sweet,” for safe measure and Liam grins down at the three of them, tangled around each other like this bridge isn’t weeks from collapsing.

It feels like seconds stripped from hours that no longer hold up the days and he knows it’ll ache so much when they’re gone.

He tugs on his socks and boots left by the door, absently grabs a leather jacket – _Zayn’s leather jacket_ – off the coat rack and a plaid scarf to match.  He thinks it’s Zayn’s also, _knows_ it is when he wraps it twice around his neck and inhales Marlboro’s and something foreign but spicy like new cologne.  He plays with the fringe and ignores Harry’s shout at Louis when he rolls away to act out one of the scenes from the film, smiling over his shoulder at them – _his idiots, his boys_ – before sliding out the front door onto the deck.

**

It’s a little darker outside, the grey clouds scraping against the sky like the creased tip of a silver marker.  The sun clips through some of the density only to streak the long car park an unbalanced river of light and shadow.  It’s colder still, the erect tip of the wind washing down over the trees until they shake a hurricane of flurries from their limbs, everything a stark white like hospital hallways and the world is so bleached of anything but winter.  It’s the kind of iciness that turns his cheeks pink immediately and he finds Zayn sitting on the railing with his legs dangling off and the world surrounding him a pale structure.

Liam balks at hesitance and moves toward him like he’s an ember trying to spark a light in this whirring frozen landscape.  He hops onto the railing, keeping his balance with one strong arm while the other marks the distance between them, and he grins dopily at Zayn when he looks up with his fringe peeking from the rim of his beanie and quiet eyes.

He doesn’t wait on a greeting – not that he thinks Zayn will offer one – and steals the cigarette that’s dangling from between Zayn’s lips.  He huffs with a quick puff, letting the smoke sit in his throat rather than sinking downward while Zayn looks on him with wide, fascinated eyes.

Liam snorts, the smoke spilling out through his parted lips and his nostrils, tipping his head back to blow out lazy rings that are far from fancy.  He bites down on his lip while careful fingers slide the filter back between Zayn’s lips and the icy air bites at his exposed skin until he has to shift just a little closer for Zayn’s warmth.

He shrugs when Zayn sucks in a tight breath of smoke, twisting his lips awkwardly at the way Zayn blows out the fumes so smoothly.  It’s cheeky, a bit overdone, but Liam likes it.

“Good chaps can smoke too,” Liam teases, nudging Zayn with his elbow and he knocks the other boy off balance so easily.  He laughs, reaching out with a quick hand to steady against the small of Zayn’s back until they’re in place again with thighs touching and knees brushing.

“They can?” Zayn questions, the corners of his mouth lifting effortlessly for a smirk.  “I thought you weren’t made of stereotypes?”

Liam smothers his blush with the back of his hand, the cold air snapping impatiently at his skin until it feels numb.  “I wear plaid shirts, live in a small city, and work at the family business.  Can’t really fight stereotypes.”

“Suppose not,” Zayn huffs with smoke between his breaths, blue clouds circling them.  He offers up the fag for Liam, smiling sweetly when Liam takes it for another slow drag.  “But you do a fucking good job at it.”

Liam nods, smiling around the filter and he’s certain he looks goofy and out of place but Zayn doesn’t make him feel that way.  Zayn makes him feel – the center of a flame.  The edge of the flame singes but the center _ignites_.

And that’s what Zayn does – he ignites things.

Liam passes back the cigarette, tilting his head sideways while expelling rough clouds of smoke.  He breathes in the icy wind until it coats his lungs in frozen sheets of oxygen, breathing out more smoke and he’s claustrophobic with the way Zayn’s eyes trap him.  They bind him to the railing and if he needed an emergency exit, he’d never find one while lost in those eyes.

Zayn smirks, confident and cocky.  He leans in after a slow pull from his fag, his tongue rubbing the dryness from his lips.  “They say the good ones are the best in bed.”

Liam snorts, shaking his head with lowered eyes.  His teeth find his bottom lip absently, shyness abundant in his bones.

“Stop trying,” he begs, knocking his boot against Zayn’s.

“Stop running.”

Fingers dance over the denim of his jeans and his cock fattens up but he shifts just enough that his weight pushes Zayn off.  He smiles widely, so aware but not quite willing before plucking the cigarette from Zayn’s pink lips.

He takes a quick inhale of it just to feel the hot smoke roll over his tongue, flicking away the ash clumsily and almost losing his grip.

“Why here,” Liam starts, rotating the cigarette from finger to finger like a balancing act and his eyes are on the forest of sleek snow rather than Zayn’s, “why this boring old city with boring little me – “

“This city isn’t boring,” Zayn insists, sliding that inch of space between them until their hips are touching.  He steals the cigarette back, puffing on it with the filter between his teeth before adding, “And you’re not boring either.  I quite like – “

“Why not with your family?” Liam interjects because his cheeks are already lit with blush and he doesn’t think the acceleration of his heart can take any more compliments from Zayn.

Not now, maybe later.

“Do you not want me here with you?” Zayn wonders, paint-stained fingers pushing his beanie back until more of his soft, thick hair is exposed.  He tilts his chin up, curious with a little smile.  “What would you prefer?”

 _I’d prefer you show me what makes you so incredible_ , he thinks but his thoughts are uneven on his tongue and he settles for shaking his head, bumping his knuckles against Zayn’s while reaching for the cigarette.

“I don’t know, I just like,” he pauses, his brow lowering and scrunching, “Like I’m just curious.”

He catches Zayn nodding from his peripheral and sighs helplessly until Zayn offers up the cigarette.

“When I was younger, we didn’t have much.  My family would gather around this old fireplace and sat for hours watching film after film and that was Christmas,” Zayn admits, his tone so hushed but fond like an ocean of stars in a dark sky, giving birth to the light the world lives under, “And then when I got older, just before University, my baba got a better job.  An office job that paid loads.  They’d fly him across Europe and, every Christmas, they give him tickets to some exotic place that he drags me mum off to, my sisters too when they feel like it.  ‘s always a nice place with loads of sun and water and warm weather.”

Liam nods, shoulders rolling forward.  He scoots just a little closer, bodies a little firmer, the swirl of smoke around them a neat fence from the shy flurries spinning from the sky outside.

“’s just not me, y’know?  I’m a city boy.  Back in Bradford, I didn’t really know we didn’t have much when I was younger,” Zayn adds, weaving the dying cigarette between his fingers as Liam takes a motionless puff of it.  He lifts his lips a little into a shy, almost nervous smile.  “Me and my older sister would just run in the snow until our mum got mad with us and we’d sat for hours playing games as a family.  That’s what Christmas for me was and – I dunno.  I just want that _back_ sometimes.”

Liam smirks, his cheeks indented with blush and he unintentionally strokes the cold tips of his fingers over the back of Zayn’s neck, beneath that imposing collar on Harry’s trench coat and between the fabric of Louis’ scarf.

“Something simple,” Liam puts in, his shoulders shaking with his quiet laugh.

Zayn nods quickly, looking up with wide, bright eyes like a child on the eve of something magical.

“Just like that, y’know,” Zayn giggles, tucking the end of his fag in the corner of his mouth.  He lets it hang, distant fingers sliding over Liam’s thigh, finding his spare ones.  Their cold knuckles brush, dull nails scratching for something more.

“I asked Harry to bring me here because, I don’t know, like I need that again,” Zayn admits, his voice thick with smoke and an awkward innocence that shrouds everything else he’s so good at parading in front of the others.  “And, like, I really like it here.  I like, I don’t know, I like what you have here.”

Liam reels his head back with an amused smile.  Shock and confusion spiral down his spine and he lets Zayn’s fingers capture his, tangling together like neatly woven bracelets – the kind Louis gave to each of them like lucky charms before he packed up for University.

“I reckon this place isn’t so bad,” Liam says with a defeated smile, thumbing along Zayn’s cold skin until it’s warm and familiar and promising.

He tips his head back, his breath visible and foggy against the damp air.  Gentle flakes of lively snow careen from the roof, tickle the tip of his nose until it twitches and he sneezes, a loud sound that draws up a wild laughter from Zayn.  He’s crinkled eyes, just at the edges, a scrunched up nose, wide mouth, and he’s incredibly docile but so fucking beautiful.

Liam drops his eyes away to their feet, the way they kick at each other playfully and everything sits heavy on his shoulders like _forever_.

So close, touchable, but behind a glass case of regret.

“I sometimes wish I would’ve traveled the world with Haz,” Liam admits and he’s not sure why.  The words spill from his lips, his fingers shaking from something other than the cold.  There’s a numb sensation in the center of his stomach and the flakes dance around him but all he sees is faded dreams in the shadow of the trees.

“Or maybe went away with Niall to another city,” Liam adds, his voice coiled in on itself until the sound is extraneous.  “I should’ve gone for a footie scholarship like Lou, maybe cross country ‘cause I was good, really.  I was only ever good at sports and I should’ve stuck with it.”

He concentrates on how cold his nose is, the small sniffles that do little to warm his cheeks, the way Zayn’s fingers run small _x’s_ and _o’s_ over his skin in an invisible game of tic tac toe.  He watches his breath rush out like the smoke from Zayn’s lungs, his tongue licking away chapped lips.

“When I was a kid, I thought about running away to London,” Liam says with a laugh just to disguise the marionette of regret.  His teeth bite at his lip and his eyes stay on the ground, the iced snow so far but not really.  “Or maybe the States.  Anywhere.  But I knew better, like, I just knew.  This is home and it’s what my mum always reminded me when I thought about doing something else.  Being something else.”

Zayn clears his throat softly and it sounds like an echo in a tunnel, just in his ears.  He doesn’t lift his chin or change his view but he tightens his fingers around Zayn’s because admission is not something he does well.

His eyes slide shut and he’s in love with the way Zayn’s lips – dry, chapped, frozen – press to his temple like he understands.  They shuffle closer, laugh until they can see the foggy white stain of their breaths all around them like the passing smoke and Liam’s certain he’s okay with shutting up after that.

He’s okay with just holding Zayn’s hand while the snow parades across the skyline, erasing _regret_ for something mildly bearable.

**

Eleanor’s yearly Christmas do feels more like a reunion than the Silver Flask, more than the snow-bleached streets, than the rivers of shops where he bumps into Aiden or shares a laugh with Josh while in the queue at the coffee shop or the record shop where he and that good-natured Matt Cardle trade Drake verses like poetic scriptures from a Shakespearean play.  It feels like that one time during the year all of his mates from secondary and primary school gather together under endless strings of fairy lights, fancy candles, linen tablecloths, glasses of posh white wine, and red-ribbon wreaths and the one time Liam watches Eleanor be so damn gleeful.

Most of the city is here, as they always are, including a small gathering of parents who want to reminisce as much as Liam’s old mates do with their expensive cameras and proper cocktail wear to match.  The inn is always decorated so finely with nice white curtains and a freshly polished dance floor, the sway of music a tolerable mixture of Christmas tunes and danceable stuff that Liam nods a head to but doesn’t really bother moving much with.  Some of the attendants dress up in holiday attire – Santa hats, striped stockings, jingle bells, a sharp array of greens and reds – while others stick to their cardies and silly winter jumpers.

The night’s sky is that sort of majestic – and yes, he automatically thinks of _Zayn_ and his product-stiff, aerodynamic quiff and bright harvest gold eyes and rough stubble and soft, pink lips wrapped loosely around a cigarette when he ducks outside five minutes after walking in with Harry – purple, hiding from the too small stars and the inky black threatening to darken everything below.  The moon is somewhere, landlocked between heavy clouds, and the snow has already fallen but the air is still a certain kind of frosty cold that beckons Liam to return home to his bed and personal heater and a large stack of _Captain America_ back issues.  He knows better because Eleanor will castrate him – Louis too – and his mum is somewhere gossiping with Johannah and Anne.

It’s the one night he’s just a little more than _Geoff’s son_.

He smiles with Madonna’s ‘Borderline’ in the background and there’s a small crowd around Eleanor in her tiny black dress, her hair a spill of loose curls and a floppy Santa hat covering them.  He swallows down a small laugh with a large gulp of hot cider.  It’s still so new – Eleanor in anything but a pair of loose sweats, her hair tied up in a tangled ponytail with glasses sitting goofily on her too small face, a loose sweatshirt hanging off her shoulders with a pencil between her teeth and Louis clinging to her waist.  It feels like there’s a galaxy between _then_ and _now_ , a boundless ocean of _what was_ and _what is_ and they’re his carpe diem.

They will always be, even across England with cities and kilometers between them, his home.

“This lot never really changes, do they?” Harry asks, leaning against a wall with Liam tucked into his side, sipping royally at a flute of rubbishy white wine.  He giggles into Liam’s shoulder – his third glass after a cup of posh bourbon Gemma slipped him once she arrived with a few University mates in tow.

Liam quirks an eyebrow, lifts his smile a little higher at Max and Louis trading footie stories over by the bar, Niall ploughing through a few small plates of finger foods with Cher Lloyd – no longer metallic braces, trashy makeup, and that dodgy haircut that made her look nothing like Cheryl Tweedy, no matter what the stylist said – snickering next to him.  Gemma’s retelling another _‘Harry Styles classic,’_ as she calls them so fondly, to an older crowd while Death Cab for Cutie strums in the distance.

“Not much,” Liam pauses, grinning as Louis throws an arm around Niall’s loose shoulders, dragging him from the food toward Gemma and they dissipate into laughter and old times like space hasn’t effected them, “I suppose, no, they don’t.”

Harry nods with a spritely smile, his dimple pronounced before he takes another long sip of wine.

“Still no dad?” Harry wonders, knocking his slim hip against Liam’s.

Liam shakes his head with a mild grin, lips pressed firm together to swallow the _‘not this year or any year or probably ever’_ that floats on the flat of his tongue.

It’s the one night in the year – besides Liam’s birthday – his father gives him off, Paul too.  He closes up the pub by himself even though there’s never any customers to tend to because they’re all usually feasting off the free booze and cheap hors d’oeuvres at Eleanor’s party.  He doesn’t say it’s because his father likes that moment of quiet, just the static of the telly and the hum of the jukebox and his life’s work just beneath his hands.  Or that maybe his father doesn’t feel a part of this community anymore.  He’s just – Geoff Payne.

“My mummy will probably bring him back some food and a bottle of leftover wine,” Liam says like an afterthought, curling an arm around Harry’s waist to balance him as he tips his head back for the last of his wine.

“Sweet parents, Payner, really,” Harry sighs, winking at Louis from across the room.  “They raised you proper.  Right fine husband you’ll make.”

Liam nods absentmindedly, eyeing Eleanor as she curls around Louis’ sweet touches, giggles into his neck, plays the role most of these people have grown accustom to her being.

He wonders what life is like for them outside of these city limits – where Harry is the most fascinating one in the room, where Niall fits into every conversation, where Eleanor is more than just pretty cheekbones and wide eyes, where Louis isn’t the loudest or the most dramatic.

For half of a very long second, he muses on where _he_ would fit in it all.

“He is absolutely fit,” Harry cheers with wild hand motions that nearly knock Liam’s cup from his fingers.  “Do you _see_ him?”

Liam rolls his eyes immediately, sighing at the messy kiss Louis presses to Niall’s already flushed cheeks – both of them still stuck on a kite’s tail of a high from a joint they smoked an hour before getting dressed at the bungalow because they were too lazy to tell Eleanor they wanted to skip out this year – before nudging Harry away with an elbow.

“You’re gonna make me suffer through another night of you longing for the Tommo, right?” Liam teases with a dry voice.

Harry releases a meek sound, jutting his hip until he presses the bone-end of it against Liam’s.  “I’m talking about _him_ , you dolt.”

Liam thinks he’s lost in the stardust and the mercury and the two fucks to give madness of holiday spirit crowding much of the ballroom at the inn but it all thins and spreads out when he follows Harry’s eye line to a few feet across the room where Zayn is huddled in a corner with Gemma, that dopey Luke, and a couple of younger chaps that Liam doesn’t really remember from secondary school – and he doubts they remember him too because Liam wasn’t noticeable like Harry or Louis or even Niall with the piss-poor dye job and crooked teeth.  They all look blitzed out – all except calm, quiet, shy Zayn – on plastic cups of alcohol and rock music.  Gemma’s leading the charge with a cheeky smirk that rivals Harry’s, lengthy auburn hair, and that sort of flower child pageantry that Liam never got used to but adores on her.

The playlist is _horrible_ , like someone’s iPod hooked up to a dock and set on party shuffle but it plays a good tune every eight songs and Liam only notices because Zayn seems to move like the scratch of a Daft Punk track overlaying the smooth rhythm of Robin Thicke as he strides toward them.  He’s nursing something clear and probably strong with a Louis Tomlinson attached to his hip and a matching Niall Horan underneath his free arm and Liam thinks it’s all kind of comical how they try to look as distinguished as Zayn does naturally but can’t quite manage it.

“Only Eleanor Calder would have Spice Girls so conveniently downloaded into her music selection like we were six years old again,” Louis says with a snort and a lazy hand pushing already curling locks of his hair from his forehead.

“Didn’t you used to date her?” Zayn teases with a flicked up eyebrow and an increasingly intoxicating smile – it’s a little crooked, sideways, and it shows half of his teeth and tongue and Liam forgets the last thirty seconds of his life that quickly.

“I liked you,” Louis huffs, pulling back with a mock frown and silver-blue eyes under the inn’s dim lighting.  “For five actual seconds, I liked you and then you ruined it.  Total prick.”

Zayn chuckles while Niall slides into a drumming laugh that’s spurred by his high and lack of proper food to kill his munchies.

“He’ll win you over again, Lou,” Harry promises, reaching out with a misguided arm that chokes around Louis’ neck as he drags him closer.  He smiles into thick, thick hair before whispering, “He always does.”

Liam smiles around the mouth of his cup, sipping slowly and looking at Zayn is the kind of daze he thinks one only gets when blitzed on too much alcohol or dream-like weed.  But he thinks of the London skyline and harbor lights and the wavy flame in the clouds where high beams shine on the fog.

It’s the subtle kind of reverie you experience in hallucinations and, Liam thinks, Zayn is just that – an illusion.

He misses it when Louis is distracted with Harry and Niall’s running shy eyes over Gemma in the corner and Zayn’s _right there_ , in front of him now with teeth biting at his lip, the soft growl of some old Robbie Williams tune in the foreground, and this inert shyness surrounding Zayn like he’s thinking in _might’s_ and _could be’s_.

“I’m not very good at this,” Zayn admits, his voice still scratchy from earlier smoke but thick like fresh honey.  His shoulders lift a little with a snicker, chin tucked so that he has to look up through long, thick eyelashes.

Liam swallows, tilting his head to the side and he can’t swallow down the giggle that shakes his body.

“At what?  Being _normal_?” Liam jokes and his fingers move on their own accord when they pinch Zayn’s hip to drag out a small laugh.

Zayn rolls his eyes, his brow scrunched in something typically juvenile but hauntingly genuine across his face.

“Now who’s the donut?”

Liam shrugs, swallowing to make the words fit easier on the uptake.  “I’m awful at jokes.”

“I’m awful at dancing,” Zayn puts in swiftly, letting out a gush of air like it was painful and itching at his throat and his cheeks stain a sweet hue of pinks like early spring flowers.  He kicks nervously at Liam’s foot before sighing, “But I want you to dance with me.”

He feels everything slow for half of a second – like the horizon, like the middle of a dream, like the first stroke of a wave on an ocean’s surface under the patiently rising sun.  His breathing loses syncopation with his heart and he stares at Zayn curiously.  No, _affectionately_.  He grins and his fingers go a little numb but Zayn’s capturing the free ones as Harry casually – no, because he does it so smoothly like this might’ve been _planned_ , the little bastard – pulls his drink from his other hand.

And Zayn’s smiling around those teeth that bite so nervously at his lip until it’s swollen.  He looks embarrassed and lost in Wonderland but he’s leading Liam with his back to the crowd and his eyes so intent on Liam’s.

“Promise not to laugh,” Zayn insists when Liam finally catches up with him and they’re a few feet into that small dance floor with couples cornering them in.

“Why bother,” Liam says with a muted giggle, his head already spinning and the candles on all of the dining tables flicker like choreography.  “Who says I’m any good at this?”

“Your hips,” Zayn says playfully, sinking into Liam’s space until there’s a thin division between them.  “And your feet and your eyes and, I don’t know man, but you look like you can move.”

The ceiling is uncomfortably high in this part of the inn and the acoustics are brilliant and Liam’s never really heard this song but it’s not what he notices first.  It’s Zayn’s unsure eyes and the way his hands aren’t quite certain where to go and the way his feet won’t move voluntarily but he _tries_.

Fuck, he tries and wins Liam over just that easily because his shoulders jerk in an odd form like he wants this, even if they won’t coordinate with his hips or the sway of his legs.

Liam smiles, turns while blindly reaching for Zayn’s slender hips and, when he finds a proper grip, he tugs Zayn forward until his back is flush against Zayn’s chest.

It’s halfway through the first two songs – a song by Usher he hasn’t heard since he was thirteen and that one song by Shakira he thinks he liked more for the music video rather than the thrum of the melody – with Zayn’s still nervous hands on his hips that they find their rhythm.  It’s to something a little more current and he recalls Niall going on and on for hours about Ellie Goulding a few months back over the phone.  Zayn’s letting out these little breathy gasps every time Liam rotates his hips right down onto his stiffening cock.

“See, I told you,” Zayn groans, weak and goofily, trying to match Liam’s swivels with his own jittery thrusts.

Liam laughs into nothing, fingers still learning the contours of Zayn’s hips, pressing back until he can feel the beat of Zayn’s heart against his spine.

“Shut it,” Liam giggles, Zayn’s hips tilting and he hopes no one notices the way he’s shamelessly grinding against this boy to words he doesn’t know and a choir of feelings he’s never quite attuned to.

Zayn’s fingers slide delicately across his hips, tug and wrestle until they can slip underneath his shirt and their cool tips contrast brilliantly with the fever across Liam’s skin.  He bites down on his lip – playful, teasing, _desperate_ – and guides his movements to the pulse of Zayn’s breathing until they’re smiling with each other.

They laugh together against the swirl of house music – _We, we don’t have to worry about nothing. ‘Cause we’ve got the fire and we’re burning one hell of a something_ – until Zayn finds his own beat, cocking his head over Liam’s shoulder.  Liam closes his eyes to the sight of a wicked smile and doesn’t mind when Zayn sneaks a few fingers beneath his waistband just to outline the silhouettes of his bare hips.  He grinds back with a silent moan and Zayn’s cock presses to the back of his thigh like a possibility he hasn’t considered since this morning, in the shower with a hand lubed in soap, a thumb flicking back the foreskin and his come swirling down the drain seconds later.

He feels so lighthearted and Zayn relaxes against him like he’s no longer trying, just feeling.  The lines around his eyes from laughter and aching smiles feel almost permanent and Zayn scrubs the end of his nose against his neck, breathing out a happy sound that’s contagious under the sound of their voices melting together with the music.  It’s inescapable just before he careens into Zayn with a loose spine and careful hands.

Zayn’s scruff bites at the side of his neck, his hand reaching back to tangle into Zayn’s quiff and he doesn’t think Zayn minds.  No, his lips quirk against Liam’s birthmark and the world spins violently when their knees bend to find a filthier rhythm to dance to.

He blinks his eyes open to Louis watching across the room, Harry lost in some chat with Niall and Max and blue eyes flicker a small warning before pink lips spread into a devilish grin like he’s giving Liam permission.  His cheeks spark a flame and he tucks his chin to watch the way Zayn’s hands look on his trousers, sliding to the muscles of his thigh – _Strike the match, play it loud, giving love to the world_.

“You look incredible,” Zayn whispers and his breath is so cool against the sweat pooling around Liam’s neck.

Liam bites down on a smirk, pulses through the music, tugs gently at Zayn’s hair until those lips release a breathy laugh across his neck.

“Stop flirting,” Liam snickers but his hips speak louder, louder messages when he tilts downward to press on Zayn’s cock.  It stretches, twitches against Liam’s thigh and he sucks in a sharp breath when Zayn rakes sharp teeth over the nape of his neck.

“Stop pretending,” Zayn heaves out, fingers tightening on his waist now.  “I could take this further.”

Liam hums, shy eyes straying away from a curious Eleanor or the way he’s almost certain Anne and sweet old Mr. Wagner are watching them – far from disapproving, but possibly mindful to what he’s doing.

“I could, babe,” Zayn promises to the shell of his ear.  Liam shivers at the way those lips sneak so deftly down his neck, kissing and licking away salty sweat and he can’t quite clutch at the way his heart reacts.

He bites against the _no_ but refuses to breathe out a _yes_.

Liam merely slows the dance – _We can light it up so they can’t put out_ – and stutters against unsure breaths.

“If you say so,” Zayn adds, his voice gravelly and defiant and so assured.

Liam doesn’t respond, kind, soft fingers tousling through dark hair and the world is blurred right along the edges.  It’s fuzzy and unclear but his mind finds clarity between the groove of Zayn’s fingers.  He tilts his head for quiet, chapped lips that line his skin with a trail of wetness but never leave a mark.

And Zayn slows with him, composure sinking in until they’re just swaying together through some old Elvis tune, a few Christmas classics, and the uncontrollable thump of their hearts.

**

There’s some sort of unwritten reverie he always reverences when he’s locked away in Louis’ old bedroom.

It’s the lumpy old mattress or the posters on the wall – half-naked models in bikinis and David Beckham because, obviously, Louis still has heroes – or the Spider-Man linen or the mess of clothes in the corner that still smell like boyhood innocence and sweat or that small telly his mum bought one Christmas with all of the pounds she saved up from working at the diner.  It’s the windowpane that’s sheeted in ice with clumpy snow falling outside, frosting everything white across the small backyard and into the streets just behind this little house.

It’s that feeling of never being cramped in this tiny bedroom even though it’s probably smaller than Louis’ University room and has cheap carpeting and they always cuddle up so closely on the bed with heads pressed together and an inch of space dividing them.

Louis always turns the thermostat up too high until it’s unbearably hot in the house while his mum is out with his younger sisters, at dance rehearsals or braving the cold streets or grocery shopping and Liam swears it’s a sweatbox meant to kill him but Louis loves the warmth.  He loves sitting around in old joggers with thick socks decorated with Rudolph and Frosty and an oversized sweater dressed in knitted snowflakes, the sleeves rolled all the way down to his fingertips and the collar stretched out like it belongs to Louis’ stepfather.  There’s a bowl of popcorn between them and two half-drunken beers in their hands, one of those lazy afternoons Liam only gets in December when it’s too cold to remember the other months where he does this, alone in his own bedroom.

Louis loves _A Charlie Brown Christmas_ for reasons he’s never explained but they do this annually, anyways – a few days before Louis’ birthday and so near to the eve of Christmas.  Liam doesn’t mind, the way they forget the world and the others and tangle their fingers in each other’s hair while Snoopy spins Linus so effortlessly around the frozen lake they skate upon.

“You look ridiculous,” Liam notes, flicking at the cotton ball at the end of Louis’ dopey Santa Claus hat with a giggle.

Louis slurps through his beer, rolling his eyes.  “You are not the epitome of Christmas spirit, my sweet Payno.”

Liam snorts, a small lift to his shoulders before he’s sipping at his own beer.

“You just learned what that word means an hour ago,” Liam teases, elbowing Louis.  “I swear, all of this money invested in University is a waste.”

Louis scoffs, grinning.  “Jealous because Haz taught me?”

“He had to google it, you idiot,” Liam laughs, tickling fingers at the thick material of Louis’ jumper.  “And Zayn probably had to teach him how to spell it.”

Louis shrugs, swallowing down another gulp of beer before fishing out a handful of salty popcorn.

“Details, Liam, details,” he replies halfheartedly, focusing pale blue eyes on the small television.

Liam sighs happily, his nose twitching with his giggle while an instrumental of ‘Christmastime is Here’ frolics through his ears.

“How is it,” Liam wonders, nudging his head to Louis’.  He nips on his bottom lip with eyes stroking over the tattoos inked to Louis’ skin that are so foreign – moments when he wasn’t there to hold a shaking hand and be brave for both of them.  “I mean, University?”

Louis shrugs carelessly, turning his palm over to expose more ink and tan skin and the blue veins that crawl up his forearm.

“Nothing fancy,” Louis admits with a slow sigh.  He eyes Pigpen patting down a dusty snowman before adding, “Met some nice chaps, some interesting mates out there.  Classes are shit and I’m ready for it to be over.  Studying is _hard_.”

Liam chokes on a laugh, thumbing at a heart, then a spade, pressing into the diamond that circles high on Louis’ wrist.

“I always hated how fucking brilliant you were even though you never read all of your assignments,” Liam remarks with a wrinkled nose.

Louis smirks, nodding.  “Natural talent.  Sort of like my lack of a gag reflex.”

Liam nudges him roughly with a sharp gasp and Louis’ shaking with a laugh.

“You’re manic, bro,” Liam tells him, tipping his head to let the warm fizzle of beer stroke his tongue.

“I miss the old times, though,” Louis whispers like a secret, soft lashes spreading over his cheeks as he looks down to where Liam’s fingers almost meet his.  It’s in the _almost_ and the _in-between_ that Louis sighs a discontent sound, scooting closer.

“I miss you, bro,” Louis adds under the rush of his exhale.  “I tell Haz all of the time.  It’s just – fuck, I don’t know Leemo.  Sometimes I just think about moving back and working with my mum at the diner and, fuck, I’m an idiot but this place is always gonna be home.”

Liam nods, forcing out a smile to static over the natural frown tugging at his mouth.

“You’d hate it,” Liam says, a little abashed but his grin feels proper.  “This city was always too small for you lot.  It’s just a cage, you know?  You’re too untamed for it.”

“Untamed,” Louis repeats with a quiet hum, pressing the pads of his fingers to Liam’s, creasing through that silent distance.

Liam swallows down the rest of his beer and feeds Louis’ a handful of popcorn and forgets the way Snoopy’s antics always leave him dizzy and amused.

“Bet we could still get into loads of trouble,” Louis chuckles, uncapping another beer to match his already warm one.

Liam agrees silently with a soft smirk, the curve of his cheeks crinkling his eyes.  The white noise of the slow falling snow outside and the buzz of the television sinks into his bones and he cuddles just a little closer for Louis’ presence rather than his warmth.

“Harry’s roommate is quite fascinating,” Louis says with a grin, lips curling around the neck of his new beer.  He winks at Liam and Liam hides the tint of blush in his cheeks against the thick material of Louis’ jumper.

He shakes his head, scrubbing his knuckles over Louis’ forearm before replying, “I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

Louis groans lowly, fits his fingers into Liam’s palm in that perfect wriggle that tickles Liam from the inside out and he smiles goofily against Louis’ hair until he can stop the pressure building inside.  He knows, just a few weeks away, he’ll be alone in this city again.

Inside his own skin, without his boys, the cold weather passes but the frozen feeling still creeps up his spine until he can’t breathe or think or –

He settles his fingers underneath Louis’ hat to twist around soft locks and knocks their ankles together until Louis’ sighing goes mute.

“Why not?”

Liam rolls his eyes instinctively, grinning.  Louis’ impatience is apparent but he’s doing a fine job of ignoring it for the swell of Louis’ uncontrollable adoration for moments like this.

“Come on, dude, you know why,” Liam finally sighs, swiping that crooked grin from his lips for something a little more serious.  “He’s _Harry’s roommate_.  And he doesn’t live here.  And I don’t – “

“You’re not still a virgin, are you?” Louis asks with wild eyes and an unabashed smirk.

Liam scrunches his brow to hide his blush but he can’t.

“No.”

Louis chuckles, nodding and pushing at Liam’s shoulder until they fall a little further into the creaking mattress and the valley of blankets surrounding them.

“Well, fuck, then there’s no reason to avoid the chap,” Louis insists, his reasoning nonsensical but Liam’s used to this.  Louis’ logic is a stretch above a five year old’s and Liam thinks that’s being polite.

“He’s here for the holiday and it’s not like I’m telling you to fall in love,” Louis mumbles, pinching at Liam’s ribs through the thin material of Liam’s Adidas t-shirt.  “You need a good shag, bro.”

Liam huffs out a breath, knocking his elbow to Louis’ chest before tossing some popcorn into his mouth.

“I think my hand does just fine, mate.”

Louis laughs into his shoulder and it doesn’t sound mocking, not entirely.

“That’s why your hands are always so soft,” Louis teases, biting at Liam’s shoulder before downing another fourth of his beer.

Liam’s cheeks burn and he squeezes Louis’ hand in retaliation, thumping his forehead to Louis’ temple.

“I just don’t think Zayn – “

“And so you know his name, yeah?” Louis mocks with wagging eyebrows.

“ – I don’t think _Zayn_ would be good for me,” Liam finishes, waving Louis off and ignoring the way his leering smile crawls up Liam’s skin.  “I really don’t know if dating a lad, period, would be something fantastic right now.  It’s just – I don’t think I should, okay?”

Louis splutters out a noise, dusting salt from Liam’s lips before sipping at his beer again.  He sighs lazily, wrinkling his nose while wiping greasy hands against the sheets beneath them.

“But what about two Christmases ago when you snogged that Uni chap at Eleanor’s party?” Louis inquires with a tease in his tone and a smile spread gloriously across pinkish lips.

“I was pissed off my arse on Everclear that _you_ snuck in, you donut,” Liam stutters out, tugging at the thick hairs on the nape of Louis’ neck.

Louis rolls his eyes and scrambles away when Liam threatens to punch him.  It’s playful, the way they kick at each other and nearly knock over the popcorn and Louis’ choking on his beer when Liam tickles fingers down the collar of his sweater.

Louis’ a little breathless, still stuttering on laughter before he teases, “You still had a boner and a love bite to match.”

Liam hides in the blankets with a scrunched face and he rubs idly at his neck, trying to remember the stretch of skin that was bruised a flush of red for days from clumsy, drunken lips and he misses the sound of Louis’ laughter in his ears.

It anchors him, holds him underneath the thin surface of water he usually suffocates on until they rescue him again.

Louis clears his throat, chasing off the last of popcorn with fizzy beer and a grin.  He tucks greasy fingers into Liam’s hair and tangles their legs over the bed before nudging his chin to Liam’s shoulder.

“Stop being what you think will make everyone else happy, bro,” Louis whispers, his tone infinitely serious and honest and beckoning on Liam’s attention.  “Be Bruce Wayne or Captain America or fucking Peter Parker, if you’d like.  Come on mate, be a superhero.”

Liam loses his fingers into the sleeve of Louis’ sweater and lets Louis snuggle even tighter to him until the heat is tolerable while Linus raves about the meaning of Christmas in the background.  His phone vibrates between the sheets, against his hip, and he blindly finds it in the divide of their waists while Louis hums merrily to the songs playing over the telly.

He tries not to grin – and he’s failing miserably, really – down at the screen before he reads the message from Zayn: _meet me some where???_

**


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He only ever sees them, _his boys_ , during this time of year and it's never enough. Not in this place, this city, with a new face like Zayn's reminding him that love and friendships don't last for a holiday. _'Without question, and whenever asked, Liam will always say that this time of year is his favorite.'_
> 
> (or a holiday fic where Liam loves his city but he loves Niall and Harry and Louis (and maybe Zayn) a lot more)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why did I make this fic so long??? I hate breaking it up into chapters :(

**

The early rush of the night is a dark, dark sky decorated in low hanging clouds and soft, non-rhythmic snow that falls like tiny stars from the heavens.  The moon wanes and wails far, far away with that burst of gentle cold that doesn’t ache so harshly against their skin.  The flakes taste like sugarcane and the street lights move like _science_ and _lamination_ and other fancy things he can’t put into words but it lifts a glow on the damp roads and licks glitter against the freezing snow.

They’ve only been walking for thirty minutes but it feels like a sweet half-moon that Liam bathes under.  The city is a hush of excitement, days from Christmas, with blinking lights and streets still flooded with dazed shoppers and the bark of ringing bells signaling a fast approaching delight that sinks just beneath Liam’s skin.

He maneuvers them through the heart of the city, tucking his smile behind his scarf while pointing out a few shops he adores and explaining the bits of history he can remember from his childhood.  Zayn’s face lights up like this small city is a galaxy.  He watches the snow spin, laughs at the children chasing each around the banks and the unmoving cars while they sip at steaming coffee freshly brewed from Mary’s little shop two streets behind them now.

Liam smiles around his white breath and tasty coffee when Zayn winks at him, nudges a little closer until they’re almost hip to hip in the frozen lake of decadence.  He nudges his knuckles to Zayn’s side before fisting fingers into his leather jacket, dragging him past the book shop – and Zayn whispers, ‘ _You still owe Avengers and the story of Jason Todd, good boy_.’ – toward the Christmas tree sitting broadly just behind the fountain with its mountains of decorations and ribbons and twinkling lights that shine palely against the summer gold of Zayn’s eyes.

Zayn coughs into cold, damp air – still recovering from two cigarettes and a shared pastry at the start of this – before offering Liam a fuzzy smirk that’s far from forgettable.  It feathers fuzzy over Liam’s synapses and he ponders, for a brief moment, who else has seen this smile?

He wonders if, somewhere back home, someone dreams of these eyes and delicate fingers and sharp features.  Maybe there’s a cold bed and unwrinkled sheets meant for this lithe body and the way Zayn probably leaves his name tattooed against a dozen lips.  It’s painful, distracting until Zayn’s knocking their shoulders together and stitching warm breaths through Liam’s scarf to the softest parts of his neck.

“Stop it,” Liam giggles but he doesn’t mean it.

It’s unfortunate and a mistake, but he grins and wiggles his fingers against Zayn’s tight jeans to try and crease the barrier toward Zayn’s warmth.

“I could,” Zayn half-teases, his nose wrinkling with a grin before he’s nudging a cold nose to the shadowy parts of Liam’s jaw.  “Just say it, man, and I’ll back the fuck off.  I’m not intrusive or – “

Liam groans and shakes his head because he’s not even sure what that _means_ but he’s willing.

He’s so willing to define it if Zayn will quit smiling at him like that.

His lips burn against the sharp tang of coffee instead, selective thoughts freeing his psyche as he turns toward Zayn rather than away, ducking into his nicotine scent, the hazelnut on his tongue when he flicks it across dry lips for another smile Liam welcomes.

“You’re such an arse,” Liam huffs, his smoky breath clouding the flutter of Zayn’s not so innocent lashes.

“Dork,” Zayn jokes, teasing fingers into Liam’s coat and gloved-fingers can’t press far enough into Liam’s red jumper but they try.

The city falls flat behind them, around them with misguided feet leading their dance three times around the Christmas tree like the know where they’re going.  Liam’s certain he wanted to explore the music store and show Zayn his old school or possibly that stretch of streets he and Niall would travel down for hours after classes just for a _fuck you_ to responsibility and civic duty.  He follows Zayn’s lead instead, slowly strolling once around the tree again until he’s memorized the pattern of flashing Christmas lights and how they’re timed gently to the rise and fall of Zayn’s chest.

“This place is kind of,” Zayn’s blush precedes his words in the worst way, cheekbones highlighted pale pink, “it’s gorgeous.”  His words dance in the cold wind but his eyes study Liam’s face like he means – 

Not here, not this place, not now.

Liam barely notices when the leather of Zayn’s gloves fits between the knit material of his own, fingers tangling for a smooth second before Liam snatches his hand back, startled.

It’s not the way half of the people in the streets sort of watch them – or eye Zayn because he’s still a stranger and fascinating to gaze upon and so fucking close to Liam now – or the way he’s never really held anyone else’s hand in public except maybe Louis, Danielle’s when she finally let the world in on their secret.  And maybe it’s just the shock that someone actually wants to hold _his_ hand because he’s so ordinary, plain, just _Geoff’s son_.

It’s just – it’s _Zayn_ and he’s just a scene in this film of life that’ll be forgotten by the time the credits roll, right?

Zayn looks frozen, a bit defeated until he turns his eyes away and Liam stares at the snow stuck to his long eyelashes when he blinks to focus on the children dancing around a poorly shaped snowman.

“Am I really that horrible?” Zayn asks, sudden and wounded with a scowl.

Liam drags his heels in the snow, the crunch loud beneath.  He sniffs at the chilling air and the way the wind beats down against their backs.  They cross around the tree again with the pine so heady and the distance too palpable now.

He’s shy when he clears his throat, waits for Zayn’s eyes to fall on him again.  “No.”

It beckons silence – the way they stop, look at each other, rocking in and out of time like this moment is the climax when it’s really not.

Just another scene in this apparently boring film about nothing.

There’s the whistle of voices in the distance, just outside some of the still opened shops with a candlelight glow shining down on the streets from the lights and the stars.  A gathering of people he’s known since _forever_ existed, huddled together in thick coats and matching scarfs and woolly hats and fingerless gloves sing loudly – off key but so damn happy – through a bunch of carols Liam could recite but doesn’t.  He licks out a smile at Zayn instead, shaking off flakes from his shoulders and lashes and his hair as Zayn snorts.

Zayn leans in with that scrunched nose and crinkled eyes and pink, pink lips spread wide.  He hums something vague but so familiar and the lights of the tree bring out the minty green in that swirled brown.

Liam chokes on a laugh, nodding along with a wrinkled nose.  His lips buzz along to match the sound of Zayn’s voice – _One, cut a hole in a box. Two, put your junk in that box_ – until they’re foreheads press together for a swirling, visible laugh.

They smile against their coffees and straighten themselves out to shift in their silence with the night creeping long arms around their shoulders.  Liam waits in patience until Zayn nudges close again and they walk past the tree this time toward brighter streets drenched in white, white flakes.

Liam sneaks a clumsy arm around Zayn’s waist halfway to nowhere, slipping his smile into his coffee when Zayn looks up.  He can’t hide his embarrassment or the lift of his cheeks but his eyes crinkle only because Zayn’s mouth spreads so damn wide like _relief_ and _satisfaction_.

There’s a question shifting toward the rim of Zayn’s lips and Liam makes a sharp, unrestrained noise that shakes him.

“Don’t ask, just,” he pauses, tightening his fingers around Zayn’s hip until he knows all of the grooves and bones again.  He’s caught up in Zayn’s eyes, how wide they are and the curiosity so alive before he mumbles, “Just go with it.”

Zayn does a little too silently, nudging into Liam until his head meets Liam’s shoulder and Liam refuses to shake him away this time.  He merely drags Zayn down another street that’s a little less littered with people he knows and breathes white streaks of air into the cold sky while pretending he doesn’t need this to last long past the holiday.

**

“Oi, that damn Tomlinson,” Jade groans, slinking behind the bar with frazzled hair drawn up into a sloppy ponytail, doe eyes, cheeks flushed from the kitchen heat, and her apron a bit skewed.  She grins at Liam, pressing a sweet kiss to his cheek before filling a few drink orders Liam has yet to get to.

Liam blushes out a grin, topping off Josh’s order before setting up a few refills of beer for Andy and Maz at the other end of the bar.

“What’s Tommo up to now?” Liam wonders with a tight smirk that she mirrors, dragging the back of her hand over a sweaty brow.

“He keeps ringing me about doing some starters for his birthday do,” Jade fusses but there’s not a hint of anger in her voice, just mild sets of frustration filtered by her waning smile.  “Honestly, all I want to do is get pissed, not service our old mates.”

Liam snorts at that because, irony holding true, she already does once a year when they all come home for the holidays.  Still, he doesn’t remind her and she grumbles beneath her breath while shaking up a quick martini for Amelia.

“You could always tell him no, babe,” Liam insists with a crooked smile.  He pushes the sleeves of his shirt – plaid, typical, and quite boring – past his elbows before he catches a set of hazel eyes across the bar.

It’s not that he hadn’t notice before now when Zayn walked in, sat at the bar with a book and his glasses resting on his nose.  Or the way his hair was flat and soft again, his stubble light, and his leather jacket shaken off for a thick, comfy looking hoodie that swallows him up with big block letters spelling out his University.  He just – well, he tried to ignore it because he’s working the early shift by himself and being distracted by pretty boys who smell nice, have contagious smiles, and look far less imposing in sweats and low-hanging hair is simply not something he can tolerate at this early hour of the day.

“You don’t say _no_ to the Tommo, Liam,” Jade sighs discontentedly, waving him off.  “It’s a rule.”

“Sorted,” Liam mumbles with a clipped laugh, ducking his head and shading the crippling blush that washes over his cheeks when Zayn peeks up from his book with a quirked eyebrow.

He fixes his teeth against his bottom lip, pinching the skin, before leaning over the bar until he feels like each of their little looks is a secret.

“Good book?” he wonders against the warning pressed to his chest, little retaliatory breaths that tell him not to get too close, too attached.

Zayn hums an amused noise, licking at the pad of his thumb to turn another page.  “It’s pretty gangster, actually.”

Liam snorts and his knuckles knock against Zayn’s when he reaches for his empty glass.

Zayn looks up over the rim of his glasses, a shyness biting at his cheekbones, leading teeth along the edge of his lip.

“Refill?” Liam offers, his breath hitching on the way Zayn’s presents him an almost disinterested look.

“Is this flirting?” Zayn inquires, the timbre of his voice low but cloyingly aware.

Liam hiccups on a gasp, pulls back and he’s on unsteady feet as he refills Zayn’s glass with shaky fingers.

“I wouldn’t,” Liam admits with a mild scowl but it’s not intentional.  It’s dramatic for a response and it’s in the form of a little quirk to Zayn’s lips, a knit brow like he’s concentrating.

“’s a shame, Liam,” Zayn sighs, turning another page and dropping his eyes.  There’s a little lift to his lips before he mumbles, “I would’ve done anything you asked.”

Liam blinks at him, unsure hands running over the soft terrycloth of his rag rather than reaching out to navigate across Zayn’s skin and feel the pulse of his heart on the inside of his wrist.  He sniffs, schools his expression into something a little less shocked and he pretends not to feel wound up when Zayn doesn’t lift his head again, training his eyes on the countless words printed across pages rather than how pathetic Liam is certain he looks right now.

Jade hip-checks him as a diversion or a playful need for attention or because he can’t stop gaping at Zayn but it’s enough for him to flick his eyes upward, smile down at her coy grin, and breathe _in_ instead of _out_ again.

She bats long lashes teasingly, tucking a few stray strands of brown hair behind an ear before humming, “Maybe I could get your mummy to help out with some of her tasty biscuits and we could bake a cake so he’ll shut it.”

Liam sniffs out a laugh, nodding gently before she rolls her eyes and offers a polite shrug.

There’s a rustle of laughter just to the side, rough and brazen and a bit haughty if it wasn’t coming from a slightly drunk Andy and animated Maz.  Jade groans, fixing one final shot for Mr. Grimshaw before pushing from behind the bar, flipping them off with a curt smile.

“Fucking typical,” Andy snorts, fixing his lips around the neck of his beer bottle.  He drains most of it with Maz humming along like a faithful sidekick.  Andy drags the back of his hand over his mouth to wipe away the fuzz before grunting, “The Tommo comes back into town and the whole world shits themselves to look out for him.  Oi, like the bloke needs one more reason to prance around here like he owns the place.”

Maz snorts, nodding his head dutifully.  “Arse over tit for the little shit, aren’t they?  I never got it.”

“I never got what Calder saw in that twit,” Andy laughs and the sound is coarse, a rattling echo over the buzz of the telly and the pulse of John Mayer on the jukebox.

Liam leans against the side of the bar, wiping out a few clean glasses from the dishwasher with teeth gnawing at the corner of his lip.  He scrubs down a few stains from the worn wood of the bar, narrowing his eyes but he doesn’t say anything.

He never does.

It’s not that he doesn’t have an urge to but Andy’s always like this when he’s pissed – slurring through the things he hates, how shit this city can be, the loads of irony that he can’t quite describe but tries to.

Liam weighs _bitter_ on his tongue but it doesn’t feel quite accurate.  Maybe Andy’s just – he doesn’t know and he’s not quite sure if, maybe, he’s not the same way.

Andy chases his beer with the juices of a lime, some stupid trick he learned from watching too many vacation films, his laughter growing in volume and counterfeit echoes.  His eyes fall on Liam, a quick shift of eyebrows leaving Liam’s skin just a little thin but maybe he’s used to this.

Maybe he’s known it was coming long before Louis or Niall or Harry ever arrived.

“Same thing every year, innit Li?” Andy asks, his voice dry and slurred.

Liam quirks an eyebrow with his arms folded over his chest, lips pursed anxiously.

Andy snorts, rimming a finger around the lip of his bottle.  “Lou comes running into town like the good little shit he is for the holidays and for you to fawn over ‘im for his birthday, right?  Selfish little prick.”

“Selfish,” Maz echoes with a giggle, nudging Andy before swallowing back his own beer.

Liam furrows his brow and sighs.  They’re shitfaced – or at least as close as they’re going to get for now – and he doesn’t really blame them.

This small city isn’t filled with the _privileged_ or the _entitled_ or even a particular set of classes but it might as well because some have as been regarded as _‘popular’_ while others have had to fend for the right to be anything.  Andy and Maz fall into the latter, whether they’ve liked it or not.  Liam’s certain Louis’ always been something of an elite, not that he meant it that way.  There’s just something natural about his charisma or his laugh or _him_ and Liam gets why the world falls in love with him.

He always has, from a distance.

“A real shit mate who doesn’t even show up for your birthday,” Andy chuckles with slumped shoulders and a lowered head.  He’s palming at his bottle, little licks of amber liquid splashing against his tongue when he has the energy to drink it.

“Doesn’t even call,” Maz hisses with a grin.  “Tell me, Leemo, does he even bother to invite you out to meet all of his Uni mates during the year?  Or are you just a second rate town guy like the rest of us?”

Andy hauls in a deep breath before words can slip past Liam’s lips.  It’s annoyed, a little _tsk_ with a heavy tongue before he smirks at Liam.

“Factory workers are good enough.  Lads who tend bar are good enough.  Hard workers, the whole lot of us,” Andy boasts with exaggerated hands and unfocused eyes.  His smirk is crooked and straining before he salutes Liam with his beer bottle.  “Your dad – now that’s a hero to look up to.  Not the Tommo.  He’s just – fuck, a lost soul is what he is.”

Maz falls against Andy with laughter, curling an arm around those broad, broad shoulders and Andy smiles around the lip of his glass, nodding at Liam.

Liam’s jaw tightens and his fingers curl into fists against his chest but he merely expands its width before exhaling hard.  He digs the toe of his boot into the hardwood floor beneath and flicks his eyes away from the sound of Andy and Maz choking on their own amusement.

He blindly reaches for his bottled water resting next to his cold cup of nearly untouched tea, teeth unconsciously pulling at his bottom lip before he looks at Zayn.

There’s a tilt to Zayn’s head, lips pressed tightly together in a thin white line and his book is closed in front of him, hands resting on top of it.  Those long lashes cast shadows in wide stripes across the top of his cheeks and that broad smudge of discouragement and heavy doubt in his eyes ices Liam’s skin.

He clears his throat, pushing off the edge of the counter to move a little closer to Zayn’s side of the bar and busies himself with wiping out a few glasses before blinking down at Zayn – and his lungs fill with bar dust, his lip slides between nervous teeth, his fingers twitch with uneasiness.

“And you call _them_ mates?” Zayn asks, his voice a low hiss that spikes against the nape of Liam’s neck.

His brow wrinkles immediately, the tip of the tide in another direction.  He tosses his rag over his shoulder, leans restless palms over the soft wood of the bar to incline closer.  His upper lip curls before reaction meets rational thought.

“Must you judge _everything_?” Liam snaps under a long exhale with his eyes narrowed.  He ignores the clatter of Paul helping Andy and Maz toward the door, the stumble of their feet and their roaring laughter and part of him doesn’t wish them back for days.

Zayn’s jaw flexes beneath hollow lights, the sun in the background slicing over every accent in his face a sharp gold hue.

“You don’t know my friendships.  Any of them.  You just,” Liam chews on the last of his words, shaking his head.  He draws back slowly, flicking his eyes away.  His fingers curl over the wood, dull nails dragging and he’s not angry with Zayn.

He’s not.

It’s just – this is his life.  When Louis and Harry and Niall, even Zayn, when they all leave, this is what he’ll have left.  This bar, this city, those drunken mates.  Those quiet streets where everyone knows him for a name rather than for the complicated organs buried inside of this normal, normal body.

“You just haven’t the right to talk about them like that,” Liam sighs, dragging flexing fingers through the thick of his hair.  His foot instinctively kicks out at the bar, a dull sound compared to the race of his heart just before he adds, “You don’t know _me_ , Zayn.”

His eyes stray upward just as Zayn shrugs his shoulders tensely.  It’s meant to be nonchalant or aloof or carefree like Zayn has been since he arrived but it’s not.  The teeth pulling at his bottom lip aren’t careful or endearing.  Those eyes are –

Liam doesn’t want to remember the look in those eyes.

“You’re right,” Zayn puffs out through grit teeth.  He sniffs, tilting his chin away.  “I don’t know you but I could if you’d just let me.”

It’s unexpected – like a slash of orange across a dark painting – and clouds Liam’s lungs like that sticky weed did.  It bakes across his chest and rips like an ocean wave and Liam takes deep breaths at the slow tug of Zayn’s lips downward, the way his fingers flex across the spine of his book before he turns on his stool and watches the door rather than Liam.

It stays quiet, quiet, unfriendly until Harry arrives and, even then, Zayn doesn’t mutter a word to Liam through Harry’s long, slow story about Christmas shopping and his sister’s affinity for art books.  It’s a sharp contrast between Harry’s glow and Zayn’s solemnness but Liam doesn’t mention it.  He doesn’t remember to do anything but breathe until Harry hauls an arm around Zayn’s shoulder to drag him off for lunch with Anne down at the bakery.

He slumps against the bar then, fingers itching to reach beneath the bar for that bottle of Bacardi and swallowing half of it in one go.  His tongue licks out to wet dry lips and he thumbs absently at those four chevrons until the ache beneath his skin subsides.  He frowns, shuts his eyes against the tangerine glow of the sun and tries to find that casual expanse to his lungs for the ease of oxygen he had long before Harry Styles drug his roommate to this city.

**

The sun still coasts high in the sky early into the evening.  It rages a brilliant ruddy orange against a skyline of blotted pinks and restless lavender.  It reaches between tree branches dripped in slow melting snow and burns across the city’s streets in an amber hue.  The chime of shops’ bells and the soft rustle of tires across the snowy streets provides a mild distraction to the countless stores they browse through, the howl of the wind just after five chasing them.

“I swear, I don’t know if it’s a gift or a curse to have so many younger sisters,” Louis whines halfway down one street and a few feet closer to another dress shop.

Liam grins across the material of his knit glove, tugging his beanie down to the bridge of his nose.

The snow hasn’t fallen in hours but it still sticks to everything until all he sees is a frozen sandcastle.

“Oi, shut it,” Niall teases, struggling to hold all of Louis’ shopping bags between two hands because he’s a nice lad who refuses to argue with Louis, most of the time.  “You’ve spent an hour looking for presents for Hazza.”

Louis balks under the breath of the wind, scowling at Niall but there’s no heat behind his glare.  He tips his head back, twitching his pink nose before huffing out a breath of white smoke.  “I bought that little twat _two things_ ,” he argues, flicking his head until the fringe falls out of his eyes.

Niall barks out a laugh that chases the breeze down the busy streets and the sun streaks his hair a fiery gold.  He clears his throat roughly, the sound hidden away in the thickness of his scarf before he says, “Three pairs of socks, some old tunes by Nirvana, two pairs of skinny jeans – “

“And a partridge in a – “

“Fuck off Payner,” Louis hisses, nudging him roughly with an elbow that nearly knocks the two bags Liam’s carrying from his hand.  He swings them playfully at Louis instead, jostling him away before stumbling closer to Niall for that warm smile and overly affectionate pair of blue eyes.

“We were just supposed to be looking for a few things for my nephew’s first Christmas and instead ‘ve got stuck watching you buy Christmas for the city and half of London,” Niall jokes, hooking an arm with Liam’s and leading them down another street toward that antique shop and the shoe store he loves for their colorful high tops.

Liam automatically reaches out to fix Niall’s varsity jacket closed against the harsh air and the city breaths that keep expounding.  Niall offers him up a goofy grin with so much fond behind blue eyes that Liam’s cheeks pink.  He smiles back, snapping the last few buttons closed and Louis groans those happy sounds that Liam will always associate with idiot mates and this weather.

“Since when have you been drinking peppermint mocha espressos?” Niall asks after the shoe store and the watch store where Liam finds a nice, old one – and Louis picks up one for Harry too, shy and unnoticeable.

Louis blinks up from around his cardboard cup with wide eyes and a twitching upper lip.

“Ever since _Harry Styles_ ,” Liam teases, knocking shoulders with Louis and the heady scent of his coffee explodes in the air, all mint and sugary.

“Fuck off, you pricks,” Louis spits with little venom and their laughter scampers across the snow-heavy streets.

They snicker and play fight and fumble through a few more shops as the sun makes a slow descent in the sky, marking it a warm scarlet, dense blue shade that Liam stares at while Louis scuffs the end of his new Vans in dirty snow.  Niall’s cheeks are this impossibly pinkish-red and they sniffle against cold air, bond together until it feels like this inseparable feeling will never leave him – 

And he knows it will.  It will before he’s ready for it to and he’ll drown in the thick of _memories_ rather than the breath of _purpose_.

“Remember when you worked for Walsh?” Liam asks, shoving off that sick feeling of them leaving.  He smiles when the snow starts to fall again, little pinpricks of dust in the air.  “You were an awful worker, mate.  A job at the bookstore?”

Louis snorts, shaking off bits of snow from his hair.  “The bookstore, coffee shop with Mary, record store,” he lists off, blinking up at the greying sky.  “Loads of jobs, never quit one of ‘em.”

“Bro, how many jobs have you been sacked from?” Niall wonders, teetering closer and Liam shuffles around until Niall’s in the middle, barricaded by their warmth.

“Six,” Louis says, a little unsure.

“ _Seven_ ,” Liam puts in with a rough laugh, icy cold filling his lungs when he inhales.

“Oh fuck off, babysitting doesn’t count,” Louis snaps, his smirk curling.

Liam punches his arm softly.  “It does when you burn down the kitchen.”

Louis shrugs carelessly and nods.  There’s no arguing with that.

Niall curves his fingers around the nape of his neck and twists until he’s close enough to Louis that he can hook an arm around those round shoulders and there’s something so warm, incredibly momentous in that smile that Liam almost misses the crookedness of it and the braces and the way it’ll never be half as bright as this one.  He laughs into Niall’s shoulder, halfway through a breath of fresh soap and horrible body spray and _Niall_ when the other boy clears his throat – 

“Lads, I’ve been shagging Gemma for months now and I didn’t know how to tell ya so this is my Christmas present to you,” Niall announces with glee stitched into his voice and a goofy smirk and pride is the word Liam’s searching for when he jerks his head up to look into atmospheric blue eyes.

“’cuse me?” Liam chokes out and Niall’s effervescence blinds him, temporarily.

Louis scrunches his brow and licks a slow tongue over his lips and looks so damn thoughtful it’s almost distracting.

“Do we know a Gemma?” Louis asks, tilting his head.

Their walk slows a little but Niall’s insistent in dragging them through the snow and the fuzzy side of their thoughts.

“Jesus, Lou, come on,” Niall groans but he’s laughing and tightening his arm around Louis’ loose shoulders.

Louis raises an eyebrow, sipping at his coffee with confusion still piercing his stare.

“You’re serious?  Like, _Gemma_?” Liam asks because Louis _can’t_.

Niall nods quickly, snorting like the kid who’s shagged some mate’s mum.

His enthusiasm schools the frown on Liam’s lips and Louis inhales a sharp, loud breath that distantly sounds broader than Elvis and his ‘Blue Christmas.’

“Gemma?  Oh, _fuck_ – “

“I will not fuck off,” Niall grumbles, knocking his hips against Louis’.  He brightens a little, wagging his eyebrows before rattling off, “But I will fuck Gemma Styles.”

Louis shrieks and Liam whines until Niall’s laughter rings off the small buildings surrounding them, through the white noise of snow cascading around them.  Louis sighs, slurping at his coffee with knit eyebrows and he kicks at Niall in time with his giggling.  Liam falls into the fight somewhere, knocked off balance with a sloppy smirk and he shakes his head at their resolve, not their anarchy.

“Harry’s sister?” Louis wonders after a stoic moment of silence.

Niall nods slowly, a little unsure now.  Those wide blue eyes look hopeful and Liam leans into Niall’s nervous touch, shaking fingers tapping out launch coordinates over the stretch of neck Liam offers him.

“For how – “

“Since Uni started back up.  Well, just before.  Ran into each other at the airport on my way back from Mullingar,” Niall explains through visible bursts of breath and grinding teeth, a little habit he hasn’t escaped since the braces were removed.  “It was just a couple of roundabout dates really because I thought, well, she wasn’t interested in an idiot like me.  But then she’d call and I’d call and – “

“You really like her,” Liam says with a fumbled grin.

Niall inhales deep, his chest widening with even larger eyes, and then he stumbles out, “I think I love her.”

“Oh Christ, c’mon,” Louis moans, his shoulders dropping and he looks deflated.  No, he looks _relieved_.

“’s the Styles charm, I swear it,” Niall offers up, white teeth picking at loose flesh on his bottom lip.

Liam grins, leaning into him and they swallow each other in heat while Louis shakes his head, still sipping at his coffee until the steam dies off.

“You know Haz is going to kill you, right?” Louis mumbles around his cup, shrugging.  “Like, it was really great knowing you kid.  Fucking ace on the pitch, you were.  Pretty funny, too.  Can I have your shoe collection afterwards?”

Niall balks while Liam wheezes through a laugh and they settle around each other like this – clinging arms, warming smiles, searching fingers that are never steady or still, and a fumbled mess of limbs trying to navigate down the wintry streets.

Liam swallows spearmint and acid and _regret_ slides over his tongue for half a second before he looks down at their feet just outside of a small toy store, where Liam’s spent hours buying Iron Man figurines and Batman memorabilia since he was seven years old.  He feels Louis’ fingers beneath the sleeve of his coat, bare and dragging dull nails over the skin of his wrist until little sparks of reverie dance up his arm.  Niall’s rocking against him to the chime of bells and the hum of voices from the carolers in the distance.

He hauls in a rough breath, fixes his eyes to the orangey-gold sky while blinking away small flakes of snow.  “I miss you lot,” he admits quietly, trying not to notice when Louis’ fingers still against his skin and Niall’s eyes fall on him so swiftly.  He sniffs and presses his back to the glass of the store window before adding, “I can’t help it, really.  ‘s all of the time, you know?  I just think about how – I just _miss_ you.”

Louis blinks at him, a rapid-fire flash of soft eyelashes and Niall slinks an arm around his waist, hugging tightly.

“Leemo,” he whispers like that’s enough.

He makes a face and its stupid how the sound of Niall’s soft laugh cages his heart in something familiar.  It’s hot and rescuing before Liam feels Louis pinch his skin, sliding his fingers downward until they fit between Liam’s, the connection instant.

“I’m used to it, lads, ‘m fine,” Liam promises but his voice is shaky and Niall releases a whimper into the thick of his coat.  Louis narrows his eyes at him, leveling him until he stumbles out, “It gets lonely, okay?  I’ve got my family and Andy and Maz and Jade, but you lot are – “

The words stick on his tongue and they’re the size of those monsters in that movie with the giant robots and it’s so cold under his skin.  He swallows back the beast – _regret, regret, regret_ – until it collapses his airway and looking away from Louis is so easy right now.

“We miss you,” Louis utters, squeezing his fingers around Liam’s.  “All of the fucking time, I promise, mate.”

Liam snorts, tipping his head a little further back but he still feels it when Niall folds that other arm around his chest and Louis squeezes in tight like he needs this protection.  Like he needs a reminder that, yeah, these boys are his brothers.

His carpe diem.  His breath before the fire.

He grins, twisting his arm until Louis’ caught between his coat and Niall and everything else.  He presses the tip of his nose to Niall’s fluffy hair and lets Louis’ cold lips leave a wet kiss to his cheek and it’s hard to be lonely or weak or anything but _strong_ when two daft boys are squeezing every little breath from your chest.

And he can’t find a single reason to complain about that.

**

The bungalow has always been a tiny space, even with the long, long stretch of land around it and the snow-heavy trees and the quant backyard that leads to a forest of wonder.  But on the inside it’s corners and furniture and little room for a massive crowd, which is more and more apparent the night of Louis’ birthday party when all of those corners and nice pieces Anne picked out years ago are stuffed with people.  Most of them Liam knows in some form, the other half are just vague faces in random order from all of Louis’ adventures outside of this city.

Most of the house is dim lit for _‘atmosphere and motif and because it’s cool shit Leemo’_ Louis swears somewhere between going through three different outfits in one of the bedrooms while Harry watched with such fond eyes.  The kitchen is some common meeting ground with bodies pressed to bodies while everyone reaches over someone else for a red plastic cup, liquor, beer, handfuls of crisps.  There’s a racket of music blaring through the rooms – half of it from the Harry Styles collection of mundane contemporary and acoustic stuff, the other a bunch of tunes Louis’ picked out with more bass than purpose – and everything is a little fuzzy with rank smoke that’s probably going to cling to Liam’s clothes for days.

Outside, it’s a village of old classmates, new faces, breathy smoke, bottles of beer, and the world howling at a newborn moon cast in between a collection of twinkling stars.  The sky is that thick navy like a comfortable sweater with blurts of snow falling between the hollowed breaths of half-drunk kids.  There’s a few joints passed around underneath the cover of the deck and the side of the bungalow and Liam prays none of these blitzed out idiots thinks to skinny dip in the pool out back.  They’re raging on _freedom_ and _holiday spirit_ and other nonsensical forms of therapy while kicking at the frosted lawn and having snowball fights in the intermediate.

Louis is the center of the universe, standing on a coffee table with his head tipped back, swallowing down cheap champagne Stan brought him.  He’s got smudges of glitter and glow in the dark paint across his cheeks, a reference to Harry Styles’ work in the form of tiny little red bruises across his collarbone – which is exposed via the low slung V-neck he’s wearing – and this elated smile that seems endless.  There’s a Santa hat on his head, flopping from side to side as he dances with Eleanor pressed to his side, her giggles swallowed by the music and the broad of Louis’ shoulder.

Harry’s kicked across that leather couch with a lapful of Perrie and Jade, doing rapid rounds of vodka shots with stupid grins and flushed cheeks.  He does that neat _sweep-sweep-swipe_ of his thick curls to pull them off his face and he winks at Liam, rocking along to whatever’s playing roughly throughout the room.  Niall’s occupying a corner, half-dressed in a Santa Claus costume and caging in Gemma amongst the shadows with blush riddling his cheeks and nervous little fingers pressing to the softness of her dress.  They’re in orbit amongst the rubbish and burnouts and too many red cups of something strong and Liam snorts because, even in this chaos, he only sees his boys.

And _Zayn_.

Somewhere, amongst the grinding bodies that circle the living room with hands in places they shouldn’t be and more cups passed around to keep this hedonistic culture alive.  He’s a lighthouse in this dead sea of hidden faces and sliding bodies and Liam hasn’t had enough drinks to blur the way all of this looks – hands sliding down hips, the arch of someone’s back, legs spreading and inviting, lips raking down a sweat-slick neck to leave behind bruised patches of lust.

Still, he watches intently until his cheeks flush a soft pink and the taste of alcohol isn’t numbing enough.

The stubble along Zayn’s jaw isn’t as heavy, just a dusting.  His hair is a little less stiff with product, pulled up but falling back soft like he intended to look this beautiful.  It’s the kind of texture Liam wants to lose his fingers in.  Those pink lips are shiny like some girl’s left behind her gloss as a reminder of the things they probably did somewhere in the darkness.  It coils around Liam’s spine – his fingers matching at his side in loose fists – and he narrows his eyes at the way Zayn laughs into some girl’s neck, lets another drag her glittery nails up his leather jacket and he’s pinned in by them with loose hips and abandoned eyes.

Those nimble fingers that Liam’s imagined across his chest, in the hollow of his collar, pressing out bruises across his hips, sliding between his thighs to part his legs wide are dancing across an arse, pinching a red plastic cup before he takes a slow sip of something.  His Adam’s apple moves so smoothly, head tipped back until the barely-there light of the room outlines that defined jaw and Liam can’t swallow.

He can’t fucking _breathe_ , but he’s used to that now.

There’s a burst of laughter past that sweet mouth, eyes crinkling as some brunette that Liam doesn’t even recognize slides her hands inside of Zayn’s leather jacket, just across his ribs.  She’s delicate with the way her teeth pull at her dainty red lip – _cheap flirting, wasted effort_ , he thinks – and Zayn shakes his head, spinning clumsily to dance with the girl behind him.  Fingers grip at the bone of her hip, drag her closer until the press is tighter than the air in Liam’s chest.

“He’s a great mate,” Harry says, suddenly and _loud_ and he’s pressed to Liam’s back with a sloppy grin.  “And you should give ‘im a chance, Leemo.  ‘m telling you, he’s ace and, fuck, I shouldn’t say this – but he won’t stop going on about you.  Always wants to know something new and I’m sort of running out of shit to say, y’know?”

The uneven edge of Liam’s breathing quakes through his chest and the lights from the kitchen glare off of Zayn’s shiny hair, the way some of the fringe falls sideways.  He stretches his neck with a laugh and presses a petite kiss to some girl’s cheek before falling into an uncoordinated rhythm with another girl – Perrie this time with her platinum hair and glittery makeup and skintight dress – and he’s lost amongst the river of No Doubt and Flo Rida and Jessie J – _If this is a dream, won’t open my eyes. Am I asleep? No, I’m alive_.

“Leave it, Haz,” Liam hisses, lips bending over the rim of his cup to swallow back something to dull the – no, he doesn’t like that word.

But he _feels_ the ache, under his tongue and across the front of his brain and down, down the curve of his spine.

Harry claps a hand on his shoulder, giggling, lost in his own madness.  “Don’t be an idiot, Payner.  I was for too long.”

He stumbles away before Liam can turn to him.  He watches Harry sling wild arms around Louis’ waist and they drag each other halfway to the kitchen with lips attached and roaming hands.

Liam smirks, finds a set of blue eyes through the ever-growing wave of bodies and Niall winks at him before slipping free fingers between Gemma’s and hauling her out back before Harry can spot them.  He finishes off the last of his drink, chucking the empty cup at Max who’s flirting helplessly with Jade like he’s ever had a chance before turning back to the sway of people.

It’s disturbing, the sound of his own breath hitching a little louder than the Sugababes and the noise and the cheering people from the kitchen as Louis competes with Eleanor in some stupid drinking contest.  He leans back against a wall – or _falls_ back because shock races up his shoulders – and blinks a few times before focus sets in and he finds raw honey eyes looking at him from across the room.  His teeth, on instinct, bite at his bottom lip and Zayn’s hands chasing the roll of Perrie’s hips haunts him through his next four breaths.

Zayn’s lashes flick sharply over his cheek as he narrows his eyes.  His fingers learn the shape of Perrie’s waist, the push-and-pull of her dress, his thumbs finding the bottom of her ribs.  But those eyes – soft yet hard and glaring – stay on Liam.  The pink of his tongue is visible under the whispering darkness as he slicks his lips.  He squares his shoulders, doesn’t even bother to keep up with her while watching Liam.

The sticky smoke from someone’s spliff seeps into Liam’s lungs and Zayn’s lips move just enough for Liam to figure out he’s singing along to the music – _Anything that you want boy; you know I’ve got it. Any time that you need it; you know I’m on it. And whenever you’re gone boy, I just can’t stand it_.  It’s a reverb like a Prince song, something Liam’s heard before but it spills from Zayn’s lips like something new, a lusty promise pinned to his mouth.

The crowd around them jumps with their hands in the air, spilling a rainfall of liquor across the floor and over shoulders and Zayn smirks with a sure hand pressed to the smooth of Perrie’s belly.  He leans in, lips catching on her cheek as he whispers – _C’mon baby, I’ll make it easy_ – and those eyes won’t leave Liam.

Not when he finds it hard to breathe, not when he pushes off the wall, not when he swims through the ocean of people to get a little closer.

They meet somewhere close to an in-between with Zayn’s smile soft and Liam’s determination unhinged.  He’s panting and there’s a gleam of sweat across Zayn’s forehead.  Zayn lifts a thick eyebrow, plays with the zip of his jacket before courage curves impatiently around Liam’s lungs.  Zayn snorts, so confident, so sure before Liam groans, taking an unsteady step closer until he’s swallowing the last of Zayn’s breaths.

“Are we still fighting?” Zayn asks under the pulse of raging music – _And whenever you’re gone boy, you just make me lose my mind_.

Liam narrows his eyes, his chest rising and falling a little too quickly.  His teeth work against the flesh of his lip and he wants to punch Zayn.  Or kiss him.  Kiss him hard.  Kiss him quiet.

“If you’re going to hit me,” Zayn pauses, a twitch at the corner of his mouth dampening that cocky grin.  He clears his throat and shy fingers catch on Liam’s before he looks down.  “I just don’t – look, man, I don’t know what you think about me but – “

Liam groans, loud and unwound, and he fists the front of Zayn’s shirt without thought.  He tugs on it, the rage of something awful streaming through his veins and he doesn’t bother to test his limits.  He buries himself in pretense and undisclosed need before he turns and drags Zayn through the grinding patrons and spilling alcohol and rush of _adrenaline_ that’s guiding him.  He can feel Zayn stumbling behind him, trying to keep up, and the stretch of fabric between his fingers is not nearly as soft as Liam hopes Zayn’s skin still is.

Its dark, a long stream of blacks and greys down the hallway but Liam knows this bungalow too well to need a light to navigate his footsteps.  He finds Harry’s room without trying – or _thinking_ – and nudges the door open with a foot, blindly reaching back to grab Zayn’s hand and haul him inside.

It’s a mess of shadows and rumpled clothes everywhere and Louis’ old football from their last year of secondary school and old newspapers and even older photos – just how Liam remembers it.  The moon kicks soft glowing light in through the window and it’s slightly ajar, letting in a whisper of midnight winter air.  Everything else is dark, streaked in the blue of the moon but Liam gives it all little thought as he rebels against proper protocol and shoves Zayn up against the wall next to the door.

He kicks the door shut on something new – _I can feel the heat of the light on my face as I’m walking away from you. I can feel the beat of the night in my chest. I feel like I’m a galaxy away from you_ – that’s all chunky electric guitars, heavy bass, pounding drums.  It runs like electricity through his fingers and he’s still clutching Zayn’s shirt when he presses close to map out the strum of Zayn’s heartbeat through a heaving chest.

“We’re not fighting,” Liam promises into Zayn’s mouth just before he lets the shock of their soft, soft texture overtake him.

There’s a rough, raspy plea across Zayn’s lips before he kisses back, dragging dull nails over Liam’s scalp when he reaches for something to anchor to.  Liam pants into Zayn’s mouth and twists his hips just right until Zayn feels his swelling cock through the rough of their denim.  It echoes off another sound from Zayn – pleased and needy – before Liam uses auxiliary fingers to drag that leather jacket from Zayn’s shoulders.

“What are we doing?” Zayn asks through labored breaths and Liam sneaks his lips under Zayn’s jaw in the dark, licking at small droplets of sweat.

Liam grins into his skin and shrugs, relieved when Zayn shoves the rest of the way out of his jacket.  He feels the buck of Zayn’s hips, the outline of an achy cock against his waist and his teeth catch on still-there stubble on Zayn’s neck.

“Things we shouldn’t,” Liam whispers and he catches Zayn’s mouth before he can argue.

Zayn shoves back, gentle and determined but Liam’s stronger, the muscles in his arm shifting beneath his skin as he pins Zayn’s arms to the wall.  He licks into Zayn’s mouth, tastes the flood of warm liquor and nicotine and butterscotch on Zayn’s tongue before he goes temperate, tender for a heartbeat.

“We shouldn’t,” Zayn repeats between kisses, twisting his wrists and trying to fight the grip Liam has but Liam stays steely, fingers digging in until the scrape of his nails leave little marks against Zayn’s skin.

“Not like that,” Liam swears, jutting his hips against Zayn’s and the pressure is sweet, burning up the carbon dioxide and coating Liam’s resolve in neon paint.

“Then what?”

Liam smiles, unconsciously dragging his nose over Zayn’s, nuzzling closer.  He bites at Zayn’s lip rather than his own before replying, “Just not in _Harry’s room_.”

Zayn laughs, carefree and so damn happy into Liam’s mouth and they work against different techniques until their kisses turn filthy again – _Yeah, I’m losing myself. Talking to myself in the dark. When my body starts to work like a machine_.

He frees Zayn’s wrists to grip his waist, pressing his thumbs against willing skin and his eyes flicker down to examine the push of his fingers against the _‘don’t think I won’t…’_ and the ridiculously blocky heart inked over Zayn’s hips.  He swallows against the fair kisses Zayn leaves across his hairline and his hips drag painfully slow over Zayn’s until his cock blurts thick, sticky drops of precome into his tight Flash briefs.

“Harder,” Zayn heaves out, his voice still smoky but deep and begging.

Liam grins, shoves back until his cock drags on Zayn’s and those nimble fingers find the snap of Liam’s jeans, undo the zip like they’ve practiced this –

And Liam has, in his bed, with his eyes closed and his fingers twitching like he’d hope Zayn’s would over his cock.

“I’ve thought about it,” Liam whispers, his voice choked and shy.  There’s thick blush on his cheeks, eyes still lidded as he works against Zayn’s jeans, tries to pry them open.

“Tell me,” Zayn requests, tracing kisses to Liam’s heated cheeks, to the corner of his mouth.

“Sucking you off,” Liam stutters, thumbing open the button, peeling down the zip, parting the flaps.  He swallows roughly, pushing at the tight fabric until he works Zayn’s jeans over the curve of his arse, down his thighs.

“Yeah?”

Liam giggles, drunk on something other than alcohol.  He lifts his head a little to push wet lips to Zayn’s collarbone.  He licks across Arabic and unsure fingers pull at fabric until he can scrape his teeth along the skull inked to Zayn’s shoulder.

“Never done it but, fuck, Zayn I’ve dreamed about it,” Liam admits, still casually shy and he’s a worn solider on the battlefield when Zayn gasps, drags at Liam’s loose jeans until they pool around his ankles.

“I wanted to know how you taste and if your dick gets really wet like mine and,” Liam pauses on a nervous breath, laughing through it before he palms Zayn through the material of his white briefs.  They’re damp, nearly see-through from the precome and Liam curls into hesitation before thumbing the head.

Zayn’s breath hitches, his voice whines and he’s fucking into Liam’s palm with twitching fingers cupping Liam’s chin.

Liam falls into the kiss like a leap from an airplane – _terminal velocity_ and _pull the chord_ and he doesn’t need a parachute if Zayn’s his gravity – and catches Zayn’s bottom lip between his teeth.

“I’d swallow you, dude,” Zayn promises against Liam’s lips, his smile slack and careless.  “I’d do so much for you, babe, I swear.  Eat you out or let you finger me or, I don’t know, all those things you’ve never done.  I’d want to be the first.”

Liam groans, misses when Zayn sneaks stealthy fingers beneath the waistband to scrape gently over his cock and he thinks he hears Zayn whisper _‘and your last, if I could, no one but me, babe’_ but the music thumps through the door – _I can feel the pulse of my heavy metal heart. You make my heavy metal heart beat, beat_ – and his breathing washes out the sound.

“Your lips,” Liam keens, stroking his tongue over the bottom one until he knows the feel blindly.  He thumbs at Zayn’s waist again, strokes up the fabric of his t-shirt to learn his ribs and his nipples and the flutter of his heart between skin and bones.

“Bet you get loud in bed, right,” Zayn teases against his lips, tugging at Liam’s waistband until the tight material gives way and the icy breath of wind from outside purrs against his the back of his thighs, his arse.  “You’d let me know you liked it, wouldn’t you?”

Liam moans, soft and helpless, nodding.  He can’t help it – the way Zayn cups his bum, spreads his cheeks until the cold air licks at his hole and he buries his face in the crook of Zayn’s neck to hide the blush stained over his skin.

He licks away salty sweat, rucks his hips forward to slam Zayn back into the wall, to spread his own precome over the soft texture of Zayn’s briefs.  He clips his teeth over Zayn’s collar and remembers _technique_ and hardcore porn scenes when he yanks down Zayn’s briefs to grip his cock.

There’s a gush of breath released from Zayn’s lungs when Liam strokes him properly.  He works a skilled thumb under the head and lets precome work as a lubricant, the sweat against his palm making everything slick.  His free hand grips Zayn’s hip, steadies him through a wave and gripping fingers and purposeful kisses over a stretched out neck.

Zayn tilts his head back, offers up more skin, chuckles at the free slope of Liam’s tongue under his jaw.  He shivers with an arched spine when Liam doubles his efforts on his cock.  His fingers pet across the nape of Liam’s neck and down over the twisted tendons in Liam’s forearm.

“Slow down,” Zayn begs when Liam peeks up to find a raw bottom lip between teeth and hooded eyes and the moon shines a ritual blue off of Zayn’s wrinkled face.

Liam laughs lowly, reaching up to soften a kiss to those swollen lips.

“Scared I might make you come too soon babe?” Liam teases, licking at Zayn’s teeth, twisting his fingers around the head until Zayn nearly loses it.

“Fuck, if you do,” Zayn gasps, his nails scratching out a surrender to Liam’s skin, “I might just – “

The words are lost on the pull of Liam’s fingers and that thumb he pushes to the slit until it comes back sticky with clear fluid.  He kicks his legs apart – or tries to but those jeans are still tangled around his thighs – and Liam fits himself sweetly against Zayn, chests pressed firmly together.

Liam kisses like he’s depleted his vocabulary of things to utter to Zayn.  He softens the technique and slows the rhythm and they kiss lazily for a few seconds with sharp breaths, even weaker fingers finding new places to touch.

His cock bumps against Zayn’s hip and their knuckles brush when Zayn tries to quicken Liam’s movements and Liam laughs dirtily into Zayn’s mouth when he refuses, languid with his actions until he feels Zayn tremble against the wall.

“Don’t be a fucking arse,” Zayn snickers darkly with fingers intently moving across Liam’s neck.  He’s still tickling unused fingers over Liam’s arm, across the ink, dragging against the hair, writing out invisible promises disguised as shapes.

“I just want to know if you get loud too,” Liam whispers to the corner of Zayn’s mouth.  He speeds up, shaking with Zayn until Zayn’s head cocks back for a breathy moan – _You turn my red to black. I’m never coming back._ It spills from his lips and Liam grinds his cock to Zayn’s thigh.

“You fucker,” Zayn gasps, twisting in Liam’s hand, fucking against the softness.  His eyes are squeezed shut, his mouth ajar, and the cold air hugs against their exposed skin in the dark.

“Zayn,” Liam moans, kissing at his jaw with closed eyes.  He feels the hitch of Zayn’s hips, the way he’s getting wetter between Liam’s fingers.  He’s close and Liam surges upward until their lips meet on the in-between of ecstasy.

Zayn moans against his mouth, curls his fingers into his collar, thumps a fist against the wall as he spills between Liam’s thick fingers.  He goes slack and drags his fingers upward to tug at Liam’s hair and Liam refuses to release his lips until Zayn stutters down from his high.

They trade casual kisses that turn ticklish when they add tongue and teeth and it’s so natural, the way they share oxygen and bitten off smiles.  Zayn’s fingers are incredibly masterful along the shaft of his cock, stealth-like when they slip over the head, push back the foreskin.  He’s choking out a _‘I can’t stop thinking about – ‘_ that sticks to the roof of his mouth and Zayn smirks against his lips with a thumb squeezing out copious drops of precome.

Something aches at the back of his throat and comes out strangled when Zayn smiles into his neck, presses a rough kiss that’s all stubble and lips against skin, before his fingers steady his slow descent to his knees.  Liam blinks down at him with a wide-eyed fascination that he’s certain looks idiotic but he’s trying to remember how to breathe, how to function while Zayn outlines his cock with calloused fingers.  His tongue darts out against his lips and his eyes speak volumes – _I could fuck you, I want you, will you beg for it when I swallow you_ – and Liam thumps his head back against the wall when Zayn gently attaches his lips to the head of Liam’s dick.

Spare fingers push at the fabric of Liam’s shirt so lips can chase the trail and Liam’s own fingers drag against the wall supporting him.  His legs feel slack and his hips rotate to catch the burn of Zayn’s scruff before Zayn grins up at him, framing the contours of Liam’s stomach muscles and hollow spaces with soft, soft lips.  He waits until Zayn leaves a damp trail across his skin before he whimpers, gravity forgotten to thrust into Zayn’s loose grip.

“Zayn,” he gasps automatically, or nonsensically because he doesn’t recognize the _need_ in his voice but his tongue clicks against his teeth and he hisses lowly when Zayn mouths at his cock.

“Already wet,” Zayn says with a smoky snicker, lips bracketing the head with fingers peeling back the foreskin.  “So wet for my mouth.”

There’s a rolling sound in the back of Zayn’s throat when he gets a firm grip and his tongue levels Liam, pleased moans breaking past Zayn’s lips before he’s swallowing the head.  His tongue races against the twitch in Liam’s spine, Zayn humming around him, slicking him with spit.  His fingers curl around Liam’s shaft, tug roughly as he bobs up and down and Liam’s spine arches on instinct into that heat.

Zayn pulls off with a filthy noise, lips swollen and shiny from saliva and precome before he’s kissing along the inside of Liam’s thighs, rolling a tongue over the soft skin.  He’s brushing almost chapped lips over the downy hair and sucking sharply until Liam knows there’s scattered bruises left behind.  He fights against the elastic of his pants and the stiffness of his denim while Zayn’s tongue slides slippery up the underside of his cock.

“Man, Liam you just – “

Liam groans, shoves his hands into that styling wax sticky hair and he works against his nerves to be polite.  He massages his fingers along Zayn’s scalp and waits until Zayn moans around his cock before gently shoving it deeper into that oblivion.  His hips stutter against another throaty sound and he bangs his head against the wall when Zayn swallows with the head of his prick nearly lodged into the depth of Zayn’s mouth.

Liam flutters trembling fingers over the hollow of Zayn’s cheek just for the feel and Zayn rests on his heels with a feverish tongue and hands on Liam’s thighs.  He’s shocked at his own stamina – and his toes are curled in his fucking Converse at the way Zayn keeps going and going – with sweat slicking his brow and Zayn’s name stitched across his tongue.

“The things I’ve thought about doing, babe,” Zayn says through tiny gasps.  He drags the back of his hand over shiny lips, blinking intently at Liam’s cock like he’s desperate for more.  “I just – babe, you could do whatever with me.  Just you and me and the sheets, man.  Like, you’re so _fit_.  And I love your smile and your eyes and, shit, you could ride my face if you wanted.”

Liam shivers.  He hears his bones crack when he stretches to meet Zayn’s lips again and his whole body shakes against the wall when Zayn slurps along his cock.  It’s messy and wet and there’s a thin trail of saliva sliding down Zayn’s chin when he spreads his lips wide around Liam’s cock with a focused hand stroking him the rest of the way off.

He works against a daydream of Zayn sliding slick fingers into his hole, licking him open afterwards, burying his face in dirty linen and choking out Zayn’s name into a pillow to roll his hips and his cock slides from between Zayn’s lips.  He whines and Zayn grins, stroking discreetly to make up for the loss of suction and Liam hadn’t realized how close he was until Zayn’s lips kiss sweetly over the slit.

There’s a groan in the depths of his throat and he squeezes his eyes shut against a lasting image of Zayn grinning around his cock with those long lashes beating against his cheeks.  It’s enough – _or too much_ – and he heaves out an echoing groan that flees into the night as he comes hot across Zayn’s tongue.

He’s sliding down the wall with a sweaty palm streaking loudly against the wall and he’s still coming down Zayn’s throat when his knees finally give out.  Zayn cradles him against the wall, fitting between his gaped knees and there’s a bitter, tangy taste across Zayn’s tongue when he kisses Liam.

Liam fits his fingers across Zayn’s cheeks and his jaw and he kisses like this feeling will soon burn away.  He breathes harsh drags of oxygen and _Zayn_ and Zayn smiles against his lips for a second too long.  It eases that tight curl around Liam’s spine and the fingers that dance over his shoulder are so much gentler than the ones pressed to his chest, a little to the left near his thundering heartbeat.

“We could go back into the party,” Zayn offers when the silence lasts too long.  There’s a chorus of singing on the other side of the door and Liam’s certain they’re all gathered around Louis with a cake Jade baked, candles lit up like flickering suns in the dark.

Liam swallows before pressing their foreheads together and they’re still naked from the waist down but he doesn’t seem to mind.  He doesn’t think Zayn does either, even with the tinge of blush smudged across defined cheeks.

“We could,” Liam repeats, still trying to breathe around syllables.  He blinks at Zayn, restless.  “But maybe we could wait just a little longer?”

Zayn snorts, nervous teeth cornering a bottom lip and Liam thinks he’s in love with this side of Zayn – _soft, casual, incredibly uncertain Zayn_.

“We could chill,” Zayn whispers back.  “Chillin’ is good, babe.”

Liam nods with a fuzzy laugh, curling his fingers around the nape of Zayn’s neck to prevent him from pulling back.

It’s not a promise or a guarantee but it’s just enough that they avoid the words and questions that they should be saying to listen to the scattered sounds of their hearts.

**

He always closes the bar on Christmas night.

It’s a tradition Ruth and Nicola started and it’s silly, really, because they do it so that their parents can have at least one night every few months to have a proper date.  His mum finds her favorite frock and blushes like a newlywed bride when his father slides into an old suit that barely fits like he’s trying to impress her.  He worries his bottom lip in that way Liam does when he’s nervous and buys her a bouquet of flowers with a matching box of chocolates and they’re teenagers again for one night – living in their _dream_ without the _wasteland_ and Liam’s been in love with the way his father holds her hand as he escorts her out into the wintry night since he was a kid.

He gives Paul the night off too to leisurely walk the streets and spend time with his family and it’s that hollowed peace of a slow night at the pub that Liam drenches himself in.

“You’re sure you don’t want to come up to Beacon Hill with us?  We’re just gonna watch the snow fall and look at the stars and drink hot chocolate until we freeze our arses off,” Jade offered just before ten when the kitchen closed and she looked so endearing that Liam almost hesitated when refusing.

There’s a puckered grin on her lips, Jordan waiting in the doorway, and an old Prince tune on her lips as she slid into her coat – _I wanna be your lover. I want to be the only one who makes you come running_.

The night stretches out like that with an indigo sky and a storm of flurries and the bar lights on low, drenching everything in sight a flaxen shade of fuzzy squares.  He watches the Christmas lights on that silly tree blink and refills Mr. Walsh’s glass until he stumbles out.  Josh and Nick compete for a few games of pool while the jukebox buzzes heavy with the Beach Boys and Kylie Minogue and a few holiday tunes that he hums along to.  Snow sweeps in with a few customers looking for a quick lager and a smoke before drifting back into the icy streets and the constant strum of Christmas cheer that ignites the city brighter.

He closes up just before midnight and soaks in the silence until it haunts him.  He longs for Nicola and Ruth – though they’ve both called and left him repeated messages, drunk on egg nog and _bliss_ – and that tall Christmas tree at home and his stupid _Toy Story_ bed sheets.

“Fond memories,” he whispers to no one before he busies himself with wiping down the bar and cleaning out the glasses.

Liam flips all of the chairs on top of the tables and clears the trash from the bins before sliding behind the bar again.  He smirks while flipping a few glasses around, practicing that silly move where the bartender tosses a bottle in the air and catches it in his other hand.  He fumbles a little, choking on a laugh when he nearly cracks a bottle of Kettle One before capping all of the bottles and dumping the ice.

He kicks the jukebox alive again before grinning and scrubbing down water stains on the bar.  He misses a phone call from Eleanor and ignores the first _five_ text messages from Harry – _hes incredible, do i hold his hnd, he keeps talking about my dick ???, his eyes are pretty, do i kiss him now or later ;)_ – but smiles goofily at his phone when Harry tweets about some arrogant boy with winter fresh blue eyes and an addiction to football.

Liam swallows and leans against the bar and considers texting Louis about their date – their first proper date that Harry insisted upon.  They’re at some posh restaurant on the other side of town and Harry uses Louis’ birthday as an excuse and an alibi for all of this but they both know it’s not.

Harry’s in love with Louis and, Liam’s almost certain, he finally understands the meaning of _‘the feeling’s mutual’_ whenever he catches the way Louis looks at Harry underneath the grey sky and thick snowfall.

He tosses his used rag onto his shoulder and pockets his phone before he’s tempted to call Niall.  He’s probably ditched off somewhere with Gemma – and Harry’s still not in on the secret even though Louis’ almost blurted it out at least _three_ times and Harry found a Santa Claus costume between Gemma’s sheets the night after Louis’ party.  He thinks, one day, they’ll both be comfortable enough with whatever it is they’re doing to tell Harry but there’s no pressure.

_Just dumb kids in love_ , he thinks and he’s helpless to the curve of his smile or the way he ducks his head at it all.

And he hasn’t been counting down the days until Louis catches the train back to University or when Harry will pack up his car or when Niall will just be a memory of a crooked smile and bleached blonde hair.  He’s been holding it in until it flickers hotly against his chest and his fingers lose their feeling at the thought –

This place, this city, his life without his boys.

He fixes his eyes on the cascading white blanket woven across the city through a frosted window and the moon’s half-hung on its own brilliance against that sharp navy sky.  He nods his head along to something like Cyndi Lauper – _I can see your true colors shining through_ – and he lowers the volume of his own voice to harmonize through half of it.

The snow plays like a looping feedback outside, just white noise and shiny dust and he sinks against the counter behind him until his back arches to accommodate to the stiffness.  The streets look bare except for a few couples hiding under the moon with gentle kisses, fond smiles, and the glow of Christmas still burning like the tip of a well lit cigarette.  He’s seen it too many times in far too many years and he collapses into this feeling of solitude.

It’s passed his mind too many times in the past few days – ditching this place.  He doesn’t know _where_ or _how_ but he thinks he could.  Just a small bag, all of his saved up pounds stuffed into his jeans, the backlight of the city to his rear and the promise of foreign land before his feet.

He wants to be brave.  He wants to be anything more than _Geoff’s son_.

And _freedom_ tastes like an open road and uncertainty ahead.

Liam snorts, shakes his head.  He can recognize them – _regret_ and _responsibility_ – on the roof of his mouth and he kicks at nothing before sighing.  This is home, worn out welcome or not.

He stares off into the shadows of the pub, the way the low lights flick over hardwood floors and empty tables and his mug of tea from an hour ago.  He bites at his lip until it reddens and flicks a thumb over the rough stubble on his chin before closing his eyes.  There’s a moment when his mind drifts – so automatic, so immediately – and it lingers on him.

_Zayn_.

It wastes away on the soundless _goodnight_ they shared at Louis’ party, when Harry and Niall parted them for two different sides of the bungalow.  And it’s not that he’s checked his phone on the hour since then for a message or a call or _something_ but it hasn’t happened.

Nothing has happened.

He thinks it’s overwhelming and it’s reality that kicks the breath out of his lungs.  It’s the thought that, possibly, he’s considered the notion that he wants Zayn right next to him when he walks away from this city.  That he wants that companionship and adoration for silly comic books and that smile through strange, cold nights in the middle of nowhere.

Somewhere, in that haze, he thinks he could fall for –

The knock at the glass on the door startles him and, even in the fuzzy sheet of frost, it’s not hard to make out that profile.

Liam stumbles over his own feet and the just mopped floor and he shoulders open the door with little to no hesitation.  He leans against it and ruffles his fingers through his fucked out hair with bright eyes and the moon shining silver down on Zayn.

“Hey,” Zayn offers with a smirk, leaning his head a little sideways to admire Liam.

Liam’s grin goes a little crooked and his cheeks stain pink before he breathes out, “Hey you.”

The snow freckles the shoulders of Zayn’s leather jacket and rests against his soft hair like a bed of flowers.  His eyes are a diluted gold and his fingers scratch against his light stubble.

“Is it too late to come in?” Zayn asks, hugging himself against the heavy push of cold air.

_Yes_ , he thinks but he swallows it down and his lips play coy before he mutters, “Not if it’s you.”  It sounds wickedly daft but Zayn is dreamlike when he smiles wider and Liam pushes the door further open to invite Zayn in.

They follow each other shyly through the dark and into the dusty halo of the bar lights before Liam slips behind it while Zayn takes his usual stool across from him.  Liam clumsily reaches for a glass and Zayn laughs into the sleeve of his Henley as Liam pours him a neat glass of rum and orange juice.  He bites against discouragement and reasoning to hop across the bar, sliding into the empty stool next to Zayn.

Their ankles knock against each other playfully and Liam drums his fingers on the bar to a kaleidoscope of songs he knows while Zayn sips slowly at his drink.  They match each other note for note through some old Chris Brown tune and smile shyly at each other with flickering lashes and warm cheeks when Ellie Goulding bursts through the jukebox.

“I just wanted to see you,” Zayn admits between sips, trying to hide his embarrassment behind paint-stained knuckles and Liam thinks he’s climbing towards a high again with their knees touching and Zayn’s unused fingers sneaking across the bar to scratch against the back of Liam’s hand.

Liam wrinkles his nose with a nervous laugh and battles against the blur of his thoughts that scream for a typical response.  He drags the heel of his palm down his face to scrub away the shyness and weaves his fingers into Zayn’s instead.  He feels dizzy on this constant _what ifs_ between them and succumbs so easily to the curve of Zayn’s smile until they chat about the latest Batman arc and the upcoming _Avengers_ sequel and all of Zayn’s favorite art pieces rather than how much Liam’s wanted to see Zayn too.

He sneaks away to make a fresh cup of tea and returns to the push of illuminating lights against the gentle curve of Zayn’s smile, the way he ducks his head so bashfully when Liam grins back.  Liam shakes his head, his laugh licking at the roof of his mouth as he reaches behind the bar to pass Zayn the bottle of rum and settle his stool closer to this enigmatic boy with a smile like the cool burst of ocean water and eyes something like the horizon east of London.

They smile around chats about Stan Lee and it’s inexplicably casual, the way their fingers keep shifting across the wood of the bar to meet somewhere in the middle.  It’s like a lit up sky of lightning over a heavy, dark blue ocean and Liam sinks, no, _drowns_ in Zayn’s eyes and his smile and the way he goes on about his adoration for the Green Lantern.  He’s bashful afterwards, with cheeks a burnt rose and twitching fingers that keep scraping to get closer and Liam feels the press of Zayn’s foot against his ankle when Liam starts on the new _Spider-Man_ trailer.

Liam grins into his cup of tea, misses that hint of caramel his sister taught him to add to expand the flavor.  He snorts when he sneaks a little more orange juice into Zayn’s glass, eyes crinkling up and cheeks widening at the way Zayn smacks his hand away only to tangle their fingers together over the soft wood.

“I really liked Michael Turner’s stuff,” Zayn says in the middle of a breath, downing his half-shot with a petite smirk.  He swallows with bright eyes and clears his throat, his knees fitting between Liam’s and Liam’s barely paid attention to the way they’ve turned toward each other.

Liam nods, his tongue darting out to lick away the remains of spiced tea before he smiles dopily.

“I really like Geoff Johns’ storylines,” Liam admits, invested in his high.

Zayn blinks up with a stretched grin.  His thumb catches on Liam’s knuckles and he’s pouring another shot while adding, “I really loved _Flashpoint_ and _Rebirth_ too.”

Liam stumbles on a laugh and a smile and turns his palm upward to feel the gentle stroke of calloused, paint-smeared fingers along the softest parts of his skin.

They breathe and trade off embarrassingly sweet glances between the silences around them.  The city feels _alive_ , awakening outside with the hum of drunken carolers, the buzz of a few cars down the snow-laden streets.  “I really do fancy this place,” Zayn whispers, finishing his third drink and shrugging out of his leather jacket in this neat, almost too-cool way that Liam thinks about minutes after he does it.

Liam lets warm tea slide across his tongue, blinking at Zayn with the corners of his mouth itching for a smile.

“You do?”

Zayn nods instantly, grinning.  His eyes bunch up and he releases an echoing laugh while sketching out invisible symbols – the Batman emblem, Green Lantern’s chest piece, a curvy _‘S’_ for Superman – across Liam’s palm before stilling his fingers somewhere on the inside of Liam’s wrist.

“Harry says you might not ever leave,” Zayn adds with lingering hints of a question falling over his tongue.  He catches the corner of his lip, eyes drawn down to the ink across Liam’s forearm.  “I can see why even though he won’t tell me why – “

“Heart attack,” Liam coughs out, shoulders dropping.  His foot kicks idly back and forth between them, brushing Zayn’s ankle.  “My dad.  This past February, right after celebrating twenty-three years at this place.  He was so ill and drained and he just – “

Liam swallows with shaking fingers and a twitching nose.  There’s something weighty already pressing against his eyes and he looks away, watches the lights of the Christmas tree in the corner that he huddled in for hours while his dad was in the hospital.  He curls his fingers around his mug of cooling tea while trying to remember that trick Ruth taught him about pretending to breathe underwater – shallow but calculated exhales until your lungs don’t burn as much.

Zayn’s fingers curl around his wrist like _comfort_ and he wonders if his fingers feel the unstable throb of Liam’s heart through his skin.

“I thought about leaving for University but when that happened,” Liam pauses, dropping his eyes lower.  He’s got words stuffed in his throat and memories choke him until he can speak again.  “’s my home.  This place.  This damn city.  And I couldn’t think of leaving them behind.”

He catches Zayn nodding from the corner of his eye and he hates the way this boy understands him.

Like he’s always been in this puzzle, fit in-between the corner pieces and just so damn close to the center.

Liam laughs through damp eyes and shakes his head to find reverence before turning back to Zayn with a smirk.  “This place is my – it feels like I’m just one of those guys, you know?  Grows up, grows old, carries on tradition here.  That ordinary lad everyone forgets about but is always _here_.”

Zayn’s lips twist, slide slowly into a small frown that presses tightly to Liam’s chest.

“You don’t have to – “

Liam waves him off quickly.  He’s heard the same speech from Harry or Niall a dozen times.  He knows it, word for word, and he really doesn’t need it.

Honestly, _empathy_ or _sympathy_ or _apathy_ feels unnecessary.

“’m okay with it, really,” Liam tells him and it only feels like half a lie.  He stutters out a weak smile and Zayn’s fingers tighten against his skin until he feels normal again.

Zayn tilts his head to admire him with that candid, photogenic smirk that’s on the edge of overconfidence but it sits so easily with the wrinkle of his nose, the edges of his eyes crinkled.  His thumb attaches itself to Liam’s pulse and his knees brush between Liam’s before he says, “I think someone extraordinary like you is a good enough reason to fall in love with this city.”

Liam shakes his head quickly with a nervous laugh, squirming.  He disguises a punch to Zayn’s shoulder as playful but he’s just trying to bury his blush in the shadows.  He lets Zayn steal the rest of his tea and concentrates on breathing and _‘I just wanted to see you’_ itches across his tongue until he’s helpless.

The shadows cave around the corners and the dust is barely visible before he flicks his eyes over the way Zayn licks his lips, sketches fingers under the sleeve of Liam’s shirt.

“Your smile,” Zayn sighs out, grinning unabashed at the way Liam ducks his head.  “If I wasn’t such a shit artist – “

“You’re fucking brilliant,” Liam says before his tongue can really wrap around the words and the low lights wrap around the ease of Zayn’s smirk.

“I’d sit around and draw you for hours, babe,” Zayn finishes, the rough of his dull nails tracing along the line of Liam’s biceps.

Liam shies back, nudges his knee harshly to Zayn until he’s unbalanced and Liam laughs at the way Zayn scowls at him for a second.  A hand reaches out, cups the crown of Liam’s head to rub against his soft hair and Liam feels his cheeks quake with blush.  He’s avoiding Zayn’s eyes and chewing on his bottom lip until the sting retreats.

“Why do you do that?” Zayn asks, low and hissing.  There’s an impatient crease to his brow and Liam looks up through his lashes in time to see the curve of Zayn’s plush pink lips.

Lips he’s tasted.  Lips that stretched around his cock.  Lips that stained the skin of his neck and whispered so many hot words and –

“’s like you can’t take a compliment or maybe you’re just being nice to me,” Zayn adds, rushed.  He lifts an eyebrow at Liam and his fingers keep dragging over Liam’s scalp in angry but affectionate motions.  “S’okay if you’re not interested but don’t be polite if you don’t want – “

Liam’s throat releases a crumpled noise and he sinks before pushing back into the curl of Zayn’s fingers.

He crushes reasoning in the palm of his hand and he’s never been one to completely wear his heart on his sleeve but, fuck, something about this boy does that to him.  He feels bare and pink and flushed and the lift of his eyes to meet Zayn’s gaze propels him into the abyss.  It echoes off in his head – _stay, I want you, I’m sorry I’m an idiot_ – and he wants it.

Yeah, he wants it and Zayn leaving in a little over a week with Harry in tow doesn’t seem to matter anymore.

Not with these eyes and dry lips and fingers that keep moving lazily over Liam’s skin like they should’ve always been there.

He pushes off of his stool in a heap, uncaring about the way it’s knocked over and the echo of it banging against the hardwood floor.  He lets his reflexes guide him and fits between Zayn’s legs for a second before his hands reach down to cup the back of his thighs.  The muscles in his arms stretch on instinct and all of those years training to box give him the kind of upper body strength required of a true athlete, the kind of propelling energy he needs to lift Zayn’s lean frame without much strain.

Liam hoists Zayn up with a hand curled around the back of a thigh and his other tracing reassuring shapes across the small of his back.  A shocked noise slips through Zayn’s lips but he’s thankful when wiry arms come around his neck for stability.  Ankles cross around the curve of Liam’s arse and it feels effortless to turn and lower Zayn onto the edge of the bar.

He can almost hear the snow falling thicker against the rooftop, the bite of the wintry air bearable against the way Zayn’s fingers chase his skin into goosebumps and shivers.  Zayn brackets his thighs around Liam’s hips and draws him closer with his feet and Liam watches the flutter of eyelashes against a defined cheek for a few hollowed seconds.

His thumb outlines Zayn’s jaw and the stubble that follows until Zayn succumbs to control – and Liam loves the way Zayn fights against it, still needs to maintain his masculinity – and Liam’s hands.  He cups Zayn’s cheek and sways forward to breathe in the heady scent of his cologne and the wintergreen still sticking to his skin from the cold night.  He draws a thumb over the corner of Zayn’s mouth, lets Zayn’s fingers jog across the nape of his neck and into his hair and Liam smiles at the way Zayn teases him with a tongue before looking up at him in awe.

“Shut it,” Liam says while Zayn’s lips move to form words.  He grins, nuzzles his nose against Zayn like a warning before a hurricane.  Zayn swallows a sharp breath and their eyes feast upon their lips before Liam ducks in those last few strips of space.

His lips taste acidic from the orange juice and sugary from the rum and smoky from the nicotine.  He _feels_ rather than _hears_ the shudder of Zayn’s breath as Liam presses firmly to his mouth.  Nails scratch harshly over his scalp and he ignores the pain for the pleasure of Zayn’s lips, the way they part so gently when Liam uses his tongue.

They meet in the divide of their bodies, Zayn scooting closer to the edge of the bar to press up against Liam.  His legs twine around Liam and fingers rush up the side of his face to hold him there.  Liam licks at the roof of Zayn’s mouth and angles his head just slightly to reach deeper.  He inches his fingers across Zayn’s thigh, sliding behind to cup his arse and Zayn groans into his mouth.

He twists under the hand Zayn has on his neck and slips his tongue across Zayn’s when Zayn hums his appreciation.  He grips Zayn’s hips, grinds down mercilessly until Zayn’s jaw goes slack.  Zayn’s fingers, perfect and practiced and brilliant at what they’re doing, grip his chin until he can smooth Liam into a gentler kiss that doesn’t feel as frantic as Liam’s breathing.

When he draws back, Zayn’s lips are shiny and swollen for him.  He grins, drags the end of his nose to Zayn’s cheek before he meets the shell of his ear with a soft whisper.

“I don’t know why,” he admits with a rough voice that’s dragging on depleted oxygen.  “I just – you’re too perfect.”

Zayn groans at that, shakes against Liam’s hands and he uses them like morphine to drag Zayn into a calm state.

“And I want you here, with me, too much,” he adds, lips catching on the lobe and the hoop earring.  “Right now.  All of the damn time.  This is just so new and s’okay if you have to leave but – “

There’s a whine in Zayn’s voice before he drags Liam into another kiss that sears off the last of his words.  A tongue licks at his teeth and chases vulnerability back down Liam’s throat until he falls graceless into the rhythm of Zayn’s hands on his shoulders and across his back, right down his spine.

It seems like forever – lips moving and hands echoing their thoughts and the low lights show off a shadowy thatch of stubble that drags across Liam’s skin – before Liam realizes he’s hard in his jeans and Zayn’s pressing against him like he can’t do anything about his own erection.  Their lips stutter and he hears a moan but can’t decipher if it’s his or Zayn’s.

His thumbs slip under Zayn’s Henley and he loves the warmth of Zayn’s skin beneath his fingers when he lines Zayn’s ribs.  He tips his head higher for Zayn to suck at his bottom lip before knocking their noses together for something more animalistic.  He concentrates on the beat of Zayn’s heart against his own chest and the stretch of those legs like he’s inviting until Liam drowns in the taste of Zayn’s mouth.

“Does it matter?” Zayn asks between lazy kisses.

Liam blinks at him, the bruised lips and the sweeping eyelashes.  “Does what?”

“Any of it,” Zayn mutters shyly, his fingers still searing over Liam’s neck, down over his collar.  “All of the things stopping you.”

Liam snorts, lips lifting without thought.  He leans in again, captures Zayn’s mouth until he hears the tide calling him home.

“I dunno,” he says instead of _‘no, because all those things aren’t as important as you’_ and flicks his tongue across Zayn’s saccharine bottom lip.

He doesn’t add the _‘just go with it’_ or _‘shut it’_ this time but Zayn laces his arms around his neck and fastens his lips to Liam’s.  He lets the dim lights and the voices outside and the dark night slow the beat of his heart until he can deal with the constant reminder that this is a _right now_ not an _until the end of time_ like he’s wants it to be.

**

The snow creates a small forest of ivory just outside of the bungalow.  He’s distracted by the way the trees look like peppermint sticks with their swirls of greens and whites from the needles and frost.

Harry’s always kept a spare key behind the glass of the deck’s light and Liam’s in love with the way that Zayn already knows that secret.  The night is still a river of unexpected promises with the moon orbiting the clouds and the stars streaking bursts of silver across the densely purple sky.  The cold scratches across their necks and exposed skin before Liam crowds up against Zayn’s back, grinning against the nape of his neck with uncovered fingers searching beneath the leather for the warm skin buried under that thin white Henley.  He laughs with dry lips grazing Zayn’s neck at the way the other boy shivers – not from the cold, something else – and steadies Zayn’s shaking hand as he guides the key in the lock.

They toe off their boots at the door and stumble down the dark, dark hall with stuttered giggles and fingers loosely twined.  The moon tips through the window like a lighthouse and Liam blinks at the darkness until his eyes adjust and he can lead them into the kitchen.  He steals two cold bottled waters, a bag of crisps, and a quick kiss from Zayn’s chapped lips before leading them toward the living room, with the lights of the Christmas tree still winking at them and the star on top a supernova awaiting its catalyst.

Zayn drags him into his lap when they reach the couch and they’re a tangle of limbs and smiles while the moon docks on their faces to accentuate all of their quiet features.  He lets warm fingers script thoughts across his hips, underneath his shirt and up his spine while wetting his lips and throat with the water, ignoring the way Zayn keeps smirking at him like he knows something Liam never will.

His eyes are like solar flares in the dark – gold, russet, that fair shade of honey when it’s raw and fresh.  Liam offers him a few sips of his water and snickers at the trails that slip from the corner of his mouth, down his chin.  They’re awkward like this with legs folded and arms in random positions, Liam half-on and half-off Zayn’s lap but he keeps stretching his neck to get a better view of Zayn’s cheeks and his eyelashes and the shadowed stubble along his chin.

Zayn hums softly into the silence, the static crackle of snow falling outside and a dying fire that Harry forgot to put out adding to the reverb of Zayn’s soft voice.  His cheeks stain with blush when Zayn darts his tongue out against the lip of the water bottle and he’s nervous when his fingers graze over Zayn’s jaw.

He chokes out an almost abandoned noise when Zayn threads his fingers through Liam’s hair, tugging him almost upside down for a kiss that he finds so damn amusing – _Spider-Man and Mary Jane_ , he thinks while tipped lopsided to meet Zayn’s lips.  He shies away from it, ducking his head and tracing the scarred skin of Zayn’s knuckles rather than looking at him.  Zayn stirs beneath him with fingers pressing to the inside of his thigh and, again, Liam chokes on a breath.

“Stop being afraid to do what you want,” Zayn says into the dark.  Liam turns and sinks further into Zayn’s lap to find the crest of brown eyes before Zayn leads fingers over his chin, gripping softly to add, “Falling for someone won’t hurt you.”

He blinks rapidly at Zayn, shocked and abashed and Zayn’s thumb strokes over his full bottom lip.

“Is that what this is?” Liam asks, abandoning his water to sink trembling fingers into the collar of Zayn’s shirt.  “You’re falling in – “

He can’t say it.  He _won’t_ say it.

He disguises his nerves with shallow breaths and dancing fingers until Zayn wriggles beneath him and grips his hips a little too tightly.  The moon is like acid against the sky, burning away the clouds and leaking tremendous amounts of pale light into the room and the snow falls like rain in the jungle.  It’s his comfort, even when Zayn feels more like that warm blanket you escape to on cold nights like this.

“I like you, Li,” Zayn says between the expanse of Liam’s chest and the twitch of his fingers.  The tip of his nose drags over the hollow of Liam’s throat and Liam chases the feeling of Zayn’s fingers with shifty movements that look obscene as he nearly straddles Zayn.

“You’re – I don’t fall for lads like you.”

He clumsily thinks it sounds like poetry against Zayn’s lips and his eyes are a quill inking blush into Liam’s skin.  He twists his neck to look away but Zayn’s sure fingers hold his chin still.  He bites on his lips instead, shamefully spreading his legs to cage in Zayn’s thighs before that cold feeling rolls up his spine.

“Do you ever fall?” Liam asks, a little breathless from the way Zayn’s free fingers scratch over his hip, sliding into the waist of his jeans.

Zayn grins against the lights of the tree and the beams of the moon before tugging Liam down.  His lips spread so gently over Liam’s that the moan caught in his throat slips into Zayn’s mouth.  His strength is nothing compared to Zayn’s when the other boy pushes him up and then back until they’re aligned on the couch with Liam on his back, helpless and spread for Zayn to admire, and Zayn hovering over him with intention in his eyes.

“Guess you’ll have to find out,” Zayn says against his mouth, hips stuttering before grinding down on Liam.

Liam fights back with little effort before tipping his head back to kiss Zayn.  His hips rut up absently, drag roughly against the denim of Zayn’s jeans and the words he wanted to, _anticipated_ saying leave him in a shallow breath that Zayn swallows.

There’s not much tact to the way they remove each other clothes, a rush of hands and lazy reflexes that has Zayn moaning into the cotton of his shirt and Liam’s jeans half-drug down his thighs for too long.  Zayn’s bare beneath his jeans and Liam isn’t sure whether to groan or smile into the crook of his neck so he settles for biting playfully and circling that neatly shaven patch of hair surrounding Zayn’s cock with twitching fingers before shuffling the jeans the rest of the way off.

They strip off the remainder of clothing in a push and pull war that ends with Liam’s bruised lips against Zayn’s neck and Zayn’s daring fingers slow on his spine, cautious against the hollow of his hips.  The muscles in his thighs jump with eagerness and he imagined this differently – in his bedroom, against silly sheets, his fingers inside of Zayn with his name inked to Zayn’s tongue and a box of condoms on his dresser.

Instead, it’s a leg hitched around Zayn’s bare waist and his lips parted for breathy, quiet moans – he can hear Harry’s snoring down the hall and, no, he’s not willing to wake his mate for a show like this – and Zayn slicking his fingers with some vanilla-scented lotion Harry always slathers on his skin after a shower.

He’s still not sure when he agreed to being in this position – maybe it was when he started falling in love with the taste of cigarettes on Zayn’s tongue or the helpless grind of his hips against Zayn’s or when Zayn whispered _‘Babe, I just want to give you_ everything _, even if I can’t’_ – but he blurts out a moan when Zayn’s slick fingers slide against his thighs and his fingers tangle in Zayn’s hair to drag him down for a messy kiss.  His thighs spread and Zayn settles a throw pillow beneath his hips for a better angle.  His toes curl against Zayn’s ankle before he feels the nudge of a thumb against the rim of his hole.

“Zayn,” he gasps into the thick of the night, eyes on the ceiling, the colorful lights smudged against the walls.

Zayn grins into the crook of his neck, his stubble rubbing the skin of his collarbone raw.  He shakes against Liam when his thumb presses against the tight, pink skin and Liam barrels out a long breath before relaxing.

He’s done this before – cheap lube, curiosity, and a few fingers inside his hole to build the pressure while wanking – but it’s so, so different with Zayn.  No, not different – _amazing_.

It’s amazing and his skin flushes red when Zayn drags slightly chapped lips over his chin and slips his thumb inside.  His other fingers rub around the rim and catch across stretched skin and Liam whimpers absently at the groan Zayn echoes across his lips.

His cock is trapped between their bellies and it leaks precome against soft skin, thickening at the feel of Zayn corkscrewing his forefinger into him.  His voice cracks – and this is puberty again with an aching erection and blush across his skin, sweat slicking it, curiosity wild and innocence exhausted – when Zayn adds another finger, just as gentle and nimble as the first.

“You look so hot like this,” Zayn says against his cheek, parting their hips.

Liam has to strain to look down into the shadows, past their wagging erections to the ink splattered across the inside of Zayn’s wrist and the fingers sliding shiny in and out of him.  He shivers out a groan and spreads his legs shockingly for Zayn, offering him _more, more, more_.

“Fuck, you want it,” Zayn adds huskily with a smirk, dipping to press his lips to the soundless whimper Liam wants to release.

He bites ruthlessly at his lip and he can’t help the way he grinds down onto those fingers, the way they twist and _right there_.  His spine arches in an almost acrobatic way and he tenses up around those fingers until his chest can’t hold in any more oxygen.

“Relax, _relax_ babe,” Zayn insists and Liam curls his fingers around Zayn’s bicep until he leaves behind dark bruises.

A finger tickles against that soft bundle of nerves again and Liam squeezes tighter, panting.  Zayn’s eyes are wide, fascinated and intense in a way Liam can’t quite describe.  They’re dark and blown wide before eyelashes flutter against the roll of Liam’s hips to get more friction.

“Can you just,” Liam groans, shifting fingers higher to pinch at Zayn’s shoulder, “please, babe, just – “

Zayn snorts, nodding.  He reads between the lines and the contours of Liam’s muscles with the moon shying behind the clouds and snow.  Those fingers thrust in and out like – 

_Nothing_.  Liam’s never known anything like this.  Not with nervous lips outlining Liam’s throat and his own teeth biting his lip swollen and his body trembling beneath a boy he wants to know _intimately_ , like he knows his own name.

“Christ, Zayn,” he gasps and the addition of a third finger distracts him from the tongue Zayn works over his bobbing throat, against his lips, across the roof of his mouth.

“Just need to get you a little,” Zayn smirks when Liam goes boneless under him, “a little _looser_ , babe.”

Liam coasts against his high and lets Zayn pet the stutter of his hips, smear the sweat on the inside of his thighs.  He props himself up on one arm and nuzzles his nose to Liam’s until Liam blinks clenched eyes open, parts his lips for the brush of Zayn’s.

“You’re sure this is what you want?” Zayn inquires with his fingers still inside of Liam’s stretched hole.

Liam whimpers, pushes down onto them until Zayn’s middle finger strikes against his prostate.

_You, want you_ , he thinks with cheeks afire with blush and his teeth nipping the tip of his tongue.

He feels a little ashamed at the soft whimper that flees from his lips before he nods, slides a sweaty palm to Zayn’s cheek with an _‘oh babe, please’_ rolling off his tongue.

Zayn smiles cheekily and Liam groans out a laugh because they’re both caught in a moment, lost on reverence for each other’s smirks.  He kicks out when Zayn thrusts his fingers in mercilessly, fucking out the last of his breaths with skillful digits that Liam works back against.

He’s desperate – and ashamed and so, so willing – when Zayn frees his fingers, finds the lotion wedged between the cushions to slick his cock.

“Condom?” he offers, thumbing the head of his cock and his spare fingers trace the vein on the underside of Liam’s.

Liam swallows and, if he was smarter, he’d have one in his wallet or would remember where Harry keeps that secret stash in the bungalow but he’s intoxicated with Zayn’s stares and his bruised lips and his gentle touches.

“’m good,” he whispers, turning his cheek into the inside of his arm to hide his blush.  He hears Zayn’s groan, feels the head of his cock rubbing across the rim of Liam’s hole and his toes curl.

“I don’t have to – “

“Fuck, I know,” Liam mumbles into his arm and he uses his wrist to wipe the sweat glistening across his brow away.  He turns his head, looks up at Zayn with his teeth clamping on his lip and a sudden need to find a bed and comfortable sheets and all of Zayn’s tattoos in the dark.

Zayn blinks down at him with a stern expression, a lifted eyebrow.

Liam sinks under the stare, curls in on himself a little.

“I just want _you_ ,” Liam mutters, his throat far too dry for the rough give of vocabulary.  “I just want you inside me, okay?  S’okay if you don’t have a condom or if you don’t want to or, I dunno, I just want you to do it, all right?”

Zayn’s lips quirk, twitch into a smile that’s insanely beautiful beneath these shadows and the crawl of the moon over his wide shoulders.  His hand slides patiently across the inside of Liam’s thigh before he nods back, whispers, “I just wanted to see you.”

He’s blinded by the softness of Zayn’s face and the ghost of something confident that has Liam wishing for those fingers again.  He feels so unaware and lost when Zayn grips his hips and he’s turned over, pressed into the leather cushions with the squeak of his skin against the material louder than Liam’s gasp.  His spine flexes on instinct and Zayn’s lips drag across the back of his shoulder, down across the restless bones until Liam feels secure.

There’s a tight fold in his stomach and a shiver zigzags across his spine when Zayn whispers, darkly, _‘I promise, if I get a next time, I’ll use my tongue to open you up babe and, fuck, I want to taste how loud you get on my tongue’_ and Liam goes slack against the rush of oxygen that leaves his body.

He’s barricaded in by Zayn’s knees around his thighs and fingers stretch his cheeks apart while teeth nip at the nape of his neck.  “Just relax and I promise, babe,” Zayn says gently into his skin and the head of his dick brushes mercilessly over the rim before he slowly sinks in.

Liam’s muscles contract, his skin catches fire, and his chest ignites on a sharp breath.  Zayn’s gentle, slow, _careful_ but Liam feels the stretch with a scrunched face.  Kisses run a barrier over his neck and shoulders with a hand pushing on the small of his back until his hips hitch upward.  He swallows nothing and his slick fingers try to grab the leather but they’re too sweaty.

“I can stop,” Zayn mutters with a mouthful of Liam’s earlobe and Liam thinks, _no, don’t ever_.

He whimpers instead, stretches his neck to kiss Zayn for reassurance.  Fingers press into his hip and he waits, _breathes_ until Zayn sinks all the way in.

Their breathing is far from synchronized but it’s a harmonizing sound of pants and whispers.  Liam’s skin is hot with sweat and Zayn’s lips edge over his, never firm enough.  His spine curls when Zayn’s hips pull back and he yearns, whimpers for more.  When Zayn eases back in, the head nudging something painfully awake now, he groans and shoves back for the heat.

“You’re so ready,” Zayn laughs against his mouth, a hand buried in Liam’s hair.

Liam nods with eyes closed, lashes beating cruelly over his cheek, all of the quiet noises of the room in his ears.  He steals a kiss before Zayn’s next slow thrust and he falls from grace that quickly when Zayn’s tongue slides in at the same rhythm of his cock.

They’re slow and cautious for a few breaths, Liam uncoordinated and Zayn so perfect until Liam hitches out a moan – a _‘please’_ and a _‘if you go a little harder, I might lose it’_ – and Zayn grins against his lips.  He forgets things like _virginity_ and _first times_ and concentrates on the give of his body to the pull of Zayn’s touches.

It’s faster, slippery, gorgeously satisfying from there.  The cold air outside sinks into the room, chills the dampness of Liam’s skin.  The tree lights paint over their skin.  Zayn twines their fingers together with one hand, the other gripping Liam’s hips when he lifts up, dragging Liam onto his knees.  The thrust are a little unpracticed then, out of balance but Liam bows his head and blinks at his stiff cock twitching between his thighs.

There’s a long string of precome pushed out the slit, dancing like clear glue and Liam forces his eyes shut at the sight of the way it glitters with moonlight.  He grips around Zayn and laughs breathlessly at the whine in Zayn’s throat.  Fingers press tiny bruises to his hips before a thumb pushes on the dimple in his back until his hips hitch upward.

“You’re amazing.  You’re like a fucking superhero,” Zayn says into the crook of his neck, twisting until they can kiss off-centered.  “You just _take it_ and, oh babe, only a hero could be this strong.”

Liam’s lips tremble and lotion-slick fingers draw back the foreskin on his dick.  His knees slide over the leather while Zayn licks up the knobs of his spine, bites at his muscles.  His hole flutters around the width of Zayn’s cock.  He loves the way it stretches him, so firm and thick around the middle and those fingers glance over his cock until it leaks more fluid.

Zayn leaves crescent-shaped teeth marks over his shoulder when he grinds back.  He whispers a litany of promises over his neck, into the creases until Liam’s blind with _want_.  His knees feel raw and his legs spasm but he finds enough strength to steady himself while Zayn’s hips smack against him.

It’s raw and fast and Zayn’s so deliberate with his fingers now, stroking Liam off until his shoulders roll and his knuckles press into the unforgiving cushion of the couch.  The sweat washes the product from Zayn’s hair, his limp fringe falling over his eyes until Liam reaches back to comb it away.  His eyes are stretched in amazement and his lips part for moans and Liam can’t look at him and breathe at the same time.

“Will you lick my fingers clean when I make you come?” Zayn asks, smug but still so affectionate.

The smoky endearment in his voice surges down Liam’s chest and his cock expands between nimble fingers until the slap of flesh on flesh is drown out by Liam’s groan.  His skin flushes, his body shakes, and everything goes tight until he comes between Zayn’s masterful fingers.

Zayn holds him up with sticky fingers across his hip, his cock still hard while blurting out fat drops of come.  His resolve creeps away for _sentimen_ t and _appreciation_ , words he’s never learned so intimately with another lad but Zayn does this.

He makes everything alive and breathtaking like it’s all new.

Zayn kisses taste fresh when he yanks at Liam’s hair to find his lips.  His breathing stutters and he covers Liam with his limbs while his hips hike those last couple of thrusts deep into Liam.  They’re rough, fast, impatient and Liam loves the way his name feels over Zayn’s tongue –

_Next time_ , he thinks before he remembers there might not be one.  Zayn’s leaving with Harry and this place, this city, this bungalow will be as empty as his arms will be by morning.

But he wants a next time, with slow kisses and Zayn fucking him with a little less caution, with more hair pulling and snapping hips and his legs spread wide.

He feels Zayn shake against his spine, those fingers pinching the skin of his hips.  His cock pulses inside of Liam, everything going warm and wet and Liam smiles into Zayn’s hollowed cheek as he tries to breathe through it.

“I can’t,” Zayn says in a rough voice that coils Liam’s spine.  “I can’t believe how incredible you are, Li.”

He shifts through a few more thrusts, fucking out the last of his come until they’re stuck together with sweat and something a little more promising.

“ _Leeyum_ ,” Zayn says weakly with a smile, over-affectionate like Niall always is and how he imagines Louis probably is with Harry.

Liam smirks, collapses with Zayn slick against his back, his half-hard cock still stretching just enough of Liam’s hole.  He breathes in the musk and sweat and the sweet smell of Zayn’s hair wax.  Arms curl around his waist, fingers searching in the dark and Liam lets Zayn tangle them together until they’re both restless.

“ _Leeyum_ ,” Zayn whispers again with his mouth to Liam’s neck, his hips pressed to Liam’s arse.  “If I said I wanted to stay – “

Liam interrupts him with a long exhale, an adoring laugh.  He swats at Zayn’s hips to silence him and pretends the ache of his heart isn’t louder than Zayn’s frown.  He nuzzles back, ignores the way his skin turns cold to offer Zayn something.

He doesn’t need Zayn to let nirvana outweigh reality.  He doesn’t need empty promises.

He doesn’t need a reminder that, no, Zayn is not going to stay.  He’s leaving and Liam’s want, his heart is staying.

In this city, in this place, in this abandoned hope caught in his lungs.

**

He spends his last few days before the New Year blanketing himself in Niall’s laugh and Harry’s long chats on their bench and Louis’ incessant need for coffee stained with alcohol and cuddles while watching a marathon of holiday films until they’re sleepy.  He meets Jade at the pub every morning for tea after his jog, the streets still so icy and wintry and the landscape stretches for days before him like it always has.  Eleanor drags him into the roads for shopping and trips to his mum’s bakery for biscuits with smiles and fingers lost around each other.

Louis’ in love with Zayn and the way they’re always so close to trouble, _partners in crime_ by every definition.  Niall curls around him and lets Zayn feed him crisps and abandons Liam for the bungalow and an afternoon of video games.  Harry reads on the couch with his feet in Zayn’s lap and Louis’ fingers in his hair while Liam takes down the tree, smiles over his shoulder at his boys, all of them, tangled in this hopeless mess of familiarity.

It chafes against his skin and sinks bitter into his bones and _regret_ makes an entrance when he realizes one week is too short to take all of this in.

He leans across the bar whenever Harry drags Zayn down to the pub, sharing gentle smiles and casual fingers that leave his mouth twitching for Zayn’s lips.  He never asks and Zayn never offers but Zayn takes a piss at the way Liam’s nervous around him and Liam fits his fingers into Zayn’s soft quiff while ignoring the wide-eyed glances Harry gives them or the disapproving ones Andy shoots at him from a corner of the bar.

Childhood ambition and teenage tradition are hung out to dry on the eve of the New Year.  They button up against the cold with coats and scarves and beanies and skip the usual night at the heart of the city awaiting midnight to stumble down the abandon streets.  The roads are drenched in leftover snow, the fresh flakes pouring from the heavens like pillow feathers.  The lights of still open shops glow over the street signs and the expanse of black cement and across their smiling faces.

It starts with Louis – because he’s the epitome of _mischievous_ and _danger_ and adolescent disorder – tossing a few snowballs at Harry.  His fingers are an angry pink when they dip into the snow and Zayn follows suit, chucking a few oddly shape balls of snow at Niall’s back.  Harry trails the zigzag line of mayhem to chase Zayn down the street, Niall galloping behind with bad knees and a wicked laugh.  Liam grins through the haze of snow and lets Louis hide behind his wide shoulders when Niall harkens after him.  The chimes of almost discarded holiday music filters into the air from a few shops and they chase each other down a few more streets, heaving breaths of visible air and snow in their eyes.

“Fucking hell,” Louis pants as he leaps over a melting snowman, tackled by Harry until they go rolling into a bank of snow.

Niall strings an arm around Zayn’s head, mussing his quiff while Zayn tugs on Liam’s coat, pulls on his scarf until it drags Liam closer.  They laugh into each other’s shoulder until Niall shoves them away and leaps on Zayn’s back, unexpected and uncoordinated.  They tumble into a snow-covered car and smile with cold fingers pressed to even colder cheeks.

“Idiots,” Louis howls with the moon stretched into a crescent behind him as he stands atop a car, a fist thrown into the air like John Bender.

“You tosser,” Harry giggles, trembling fingers forming a snowball in his palm.

Niall spins around a street sign like a clumsy exotic dancer while Zayn ducks behind a few cars to avoid the onslaught of snowballs Harry, Louis, and Liam toss at each other.  They smash against stop signs and crack through the air with a whir, a little softer than the sound of their buzzing laughter.  Liam shrieks when Louis knocks his shoulder with an icy ball, strides on quick legs to collide with Harry into the fluff of snow just on the edge of the street.

His cheeks ache from the frost and laughter, eyes crinkling up uncontrollably.  It feels like home with Niall clinging to his side and Harry skipping up the street and Louis singing a scratchy Killers’ song in the middle of the chaos.  It feels like a candlelit bedroom with Zayn there too, smiling into Liam’s scarf – stolen amidst the flurry of snow and running and playful shoves – with flakes heavy on his pretty eyelashes and numb fingers rubbing together for friction and warmth.

They’re punch-drunk of this feeling down another street that’s a fire of Christmas lights strung above them, attached to buildings and signs and traffic lights.  Harry carries Louis on his back with little effort, his cheeks stained a sweet pink whenever Louis presses a kiss to them, grinning into Harry’s thick curls.  Niall’s got an arm strung around Liam’s shoulders and Zayn’s so close, their fingers brushing every other step into the blizzard of flurries.

“I reckon we’ll never really grow up,” Harry says with moist, minty breath washing over Liam’s neck.

Liam grins while Louis and Zayn lie in the middle of an empty street, spread out like starfishes trying to make snow angels in the dusting of white surrounding them.  Harry’s fingers are arctic from the lopsided snowman he pieced together at the edge of the street but Liam bites down on his lip to ignore the frozen touch because he loves the way they press at his ribs, soothe the tension from his stomach.

He tilts his head with an amused grin when Niall ducks off behind a car to piss golden streaks into white mounds of snow.  Niall laughs at him over his shoulder, cheeks a sharp scarlet and blue eyes a spectrum wider than the ocean.  Harry flips him off with a snort and drags the pink of his nose over Liam’s cheek.

“Gonna miss this, dude,” Harry admits, low and throaty like his eyes are glassy from tears and now the cold.

Liam’s shoulders sink and he tightens an arm around Harry’s waist, fingers beating against the wool of his peacoat.

“Shut it,” Liam says with as much affection as he can pull together, smirking at the uneasy laugh Harry releases.  “You’re never gone forever.”

“Yeah,” Harry breathes out, curving his fingers to Liam’s spine.  “I’ll always belong here.  All of us.”

Liam nods and it feels like forever since he’s believed those words.  But he _does_.

Fuck, he really does.

It’s after eleven and they’re still roaming aimlessly down the streets, ignoring the world for the comfort of each other.  Niall wedges himself between Harry and Louis, groaning when they reach around him to kiss and whisper into each other’s mouths.  Zayn’s a few steps ahead, gazing around with wide eyes at the old buildings and fairy lights and densely indigo sky above them.  He’s a child on an early Christmas morning with parted lips, a wide smile, a tongue pressed to teeth and large eyes like a star up close.

Liam sneaks up with his teeth nipping at his lip and a handful of snow.  He gives himself away with a laugh but manages to dump the icy lump down the collar of Zayn’s shirt, giggling hoarsely at the squeak Zayn quakes out.  He chases Zayn into his arms before he can scamper away with a scowl, wiry frame fighting against the pull of Liam’s muscles and the snow chilling his skin.  He absently flutters his lips around his scarf tied across Zayn’s neck to mouth at Zayn’s bouncing Adam’s apple and his scruff drags purposely against Zayn’s collar when Zayn sighs.

He works trembling fingers over Zayn’s leather jacket, draws back to watch the indecent firefly look in Zayn’s eyes.  His smirk pushes against his cheeks before he feels awe shock his skin.  The quiet sweep of eyelashes amuse him and he misses when Zayn wiggles an arm free to use calculated fingers over his hair, dusting the snow from it.  Liam leans into the touch, presses his cold cheek to the ink on the inside of Zayn’s wrist.

“I kept thinking,” Zayn swallows, curves his lips away from that frown his muscles instinctively want to move into.  “I kept thinking you wanted me to leave.  Like you were ready for me to just go back.  Go away.”

Liam swirls into the hand that presses into the small of his back, pushes him closer.  He breathes in artic air while the hum of voices down the street anchor him to this city.

“I don’t want you to go,” Liam admits, soft and nervous.  This feeling, this revelation is foreign and he’s so good at keeping secrets.

But Zayn makes him vulnerable.  No, Zayn makes him a _rebel_ – if that makes any sort of sense.

“I want you to stay,” he stumbles out, shivering when Zayn’s thumb presses to the corner of his mouth.  “I want you all to stay, never leave.  I don’t want to be alone.”

Zayn’s tongue slides out to wet his lips, chase away the dryness before he smiles.  He nods, knocks his hips against Liam’s with the kind of adoration that Liam’s scared of.

“But mostly I just want _you_ to stay,” Liam whispers, tilting his chin downward because he can’t take the broadening of Zayn’s pupils, the shock, the curve of Zayn’s lips like he’s halfway between a nervous grin and a disappointed frown.

“Or take me with you.”

Earnest and cold fingers cup his chin, a thumb stroking over the stubble, and he goes motionless for Zayn.  He lets Zayn tip his head up and he’s expecting an exchange of words or courage in the form of a smile.

Zayn’s lips press to his instead with free fingers still sweeping the snow from Liam’s hair.  Liam whimpers into the kiss and he feels stupid and so far from masculine, strong but Zayn smiles against his mouth instead of mocking him.  He whispers a _‘it’s okay’_ and _‘I know what you mean’_ _and ‘don’t look like that, I still think you’re incredible’_ until Liam almost forgets Niall and Harry and Louis and the rest of this fucking city circling him.

Harry lets out a scandalized groan before Niall kicks snow at them while Louis cheers like a schoolgirl.  They laugh against each other’s lips and part to rub snow from their cheeks before Zayn sinks back in, flipping them off and mouthing something sweet to Liam’s lips.

**

It’s so close to midnight when they huddle into Mary’s coffee shop to warm their fingers and shake off the snow and snuggle around a small table with Eleanor.  Jade stumbles in with a laugh and Perrie trailing her, Max and Josh not too far behind.  They order up rounds and rounds of hot chocolate and lemon-twisted tea and minty coffee – for Harry and a little bit for Louis too – and scramble to the shop window seconds before the countdown.

Harry tangles their fingers together while Louis squeezes his hips and Niall offers up the last of his pastry.  Niall steals Harry’s phone to call Gemma and they all watch Harry carefully to see his reaction.  Louis kisses him quiet before he can bark at Niall for defiling his older sister and Jade cuddles around Eleanor for the _five_ and the _four_ and the _three_.

Louis’ on his tip toes, buried in Harry’s arms while Niall whispers to Gemma and the _two, one_ echo in Liam’s ears just before he tastes the swell of lemon and peppermint and marshmallows on Zayn’s tongue.  Zayn steadies warmer fingers to the nape of his neck, into his hair while Liam anchors his hips in strong hands and pretends not to notice the gasp Zayn shudders out when Liam licks at his teeth.  They kiss through a shout of _‘happy new year’_ and sway to ‘Auld Lang Syne’ with lips still attached, the city’s fireworks their orchestra in the background.

“Don’t wan’ to go,” Zayn says to his lips with his eyes closed and his thumbs stroking Liam’s cheeks.

Liam smiles and nuzzles his nose to Zayn’s until he’s giggling and shaking to get away.  He sinks further into Liam’s arms instead and Liam reaches out to tangle his spare fingers with his boys – thumb hooked against Harry’s, pinky twined with Louis’, Niall’s fingers somewhere in the middle.

**

They flee into the night and the rush of snow to the Silver Flask, where half the city is drunk on celebration and resolutions and escapism.  His father is manning the bar with Paul and they share laughter over the buzz of the jukebox, the roar of toasts around the room.

They free up as many stools as possible around the bar, snuggled tightly together while Paul pours per diem shots of vodka with lemon wedges.  Louis kisses his cheek messily while Harry settles into Niall’s lap, Eleanor clinging to Louis from behind.  Zayn is his _anchor_ , pressed to his hips with fingers stealing into his hair and his scarf still hanging loosely from Zayn’s neck.  He’s nervous when Liam introduces him to his father, amidst the noise and the swinging door from more dwellers filling the pub.

“Your mum says a lot of this one,” Geoff says after a firm handshake.  His expression is a little indifferent until Zayn bites worriedly at his lip before he lets out a booming laugh, a playful one Liam hasn’t heard since he was a kid.

Liam raises an eyebrow at his father, smiling apprehensively until Geoff reaches over the bar to tangle his fingers with Zayn’s in Liam’s hair.

“Don’t be so shocked, Li.  Your mum knows loads more than me and you.  She loves you and can tell when you’re happy,” Geoff adds, leaning back to toss his bar rag over his shoulder just like Liam does.  “Obviously, this lad makes you quite happy.”

He feels everything inside of him _relax_ , his arms loose when he leans on the bar.  He smiles at his father, at the way Zayn sighs into his neck, and he’ll never forget the way those eyelashes feel against his jaw or the twitching fingers that move anxiously over his spine.

Andy stumbles in with Maz half-past midnight and flops onto the empty stool next to Louis.  Liam _feels_ Harry tense before he sees it, Eleanor’s careful eyes surveying the scene before Louis peers at Andy.  They exchange looks that are steely, hard before Andy snorts and Louis laughs.

“Oi, Pauly, let me get a lager for my buddy Samuels,” Louis calls out.

“And a shot of tequila for my mate the Tommo,” Andy tags on and they’re a pile of hugs and laughter and sharp punches to the shoulder that Liam smirks at.

“I love you,” Harry says into Louis’ hairline and Louis is so pliant with astonishment that he’s wide-eyed through the kiss Harry smothers to his lips.

Niall chokes on his beer and a laugh before Harry surges a hand up to twine through the tuft of bleach blonde hair.  “Love you too Nialler,” he adds with so much affection that Niall swoons.  “And I just might kill you for shagging my sister.”

Liam grins at Niall’s snort and the soft stream of foul language Niall attaches to his declaration of adoration for Harry.

“This is why I came here,” Zayn says into the shell of Liam’s ear.  He can feel Zayn’s smile, the way his fingers skate over his hips before he adds, “This feels like being at home.  I needed _this_.  I needed _you_.”

Liam aches into the momentum his heart creates, turns on his stool until he’s swallowed by Zayn’s arms and fists his hands into Zayn’s shirt because he’s not as brilliant with words like Zayn is.  He breathes into Zayn’s neck instead, catches his lips on a chin, and pulls fingers through Zayn’s hair.

They kiss like time is limitless and grin at each other before the other begs for a little more.  He buries himself into soft lips and pretends this is a _hello_ instead of a _I won’t forget you_.  He feels the sharp sting of tears on his eyelids when he smells Harry, feels Louis, listens to Niall’s fond moan.

Zayn mouths out a ‘ _stay, stay, stay’_ against his lips and he shudders into it, loses sight of gravity until Zayn catches him.  He traces mindless words into Zayn’s hip and waits until the burn of losing this goes numb.

Except it doesn’t.  It stays with him the rest of the night until Zayn kisses his knuckles in the cold, offers him a cigarette, and they smoke their way through smiles and tangled fingers.

And Liam breathes in this city, this place, _this boy_ until his lungs contract around the ‘ _I’m falling for you’_ he pushes into Zayn’s neck.

**

January doesn’t feel like the disaster he was anticipating.

He hated helping Louis pack or that last coffee and chat he and Harry have near the fountain or the red eyes Niall offers him the morning of his flight, curled around each other with pink noses and _’I love you’_ over their tongues, repeated until they were hoarse.

It leaves him hollow and desperate for his bed or his corner in the pub but, thankfully, it doesn’t last as long as the numbing feeling that falls on him afterwards.

He closes the pub early on a Sunday night with Jade hanging a banner over the bar and Karen helping to wipe down all of the tables.  Jade smirks down at him, winking while Paul sets out trays of food over the bar, just around her feet.  He leans behind the bar with his rag over his shoulder, arms crossed, and eyes on the door with anticipation.

“They’ll be here soon,” Jade says with a smirk and it’s oh so familiar – the rush of goosebumps over his skin, the coil in his stomach, the gust of anticipation working up the sleeves of his plaid shirt and expanding his chest.

He snorts, eyes still focused on the door, and the sound of his mum’s giggle in the background distracts him long enough to miss Paul offering him a shot of rum or the clatter of the Kinks howling from the speakers – _Girl, you really got me going. You got me so I don’t know I’m doing now_.

“Don’t turn this place into a madhouse,” Paul warns with one of those affectionate smiles he only ever reveals when it’s just them, patting Liam’s cheek softly before marching off to help Karen push the tables together.

He smiles sweetly, helps Jade down from the bar, and busies himself with setting up rock glasses and bottles of Bacardi, blushing at the way Jade hums next to him – _You really got me, you really got me_ – while knocking her hips to his.

His phone buzzes in his back pocket and he’s almost certain the text messages are filled with – _you idiot whyyyy are you not picking me up from the tube??_ or _I hate you & will send you naked pics of Haz if u don’t answer_ – but he ignores them in favor of lining up shot glasses and helping Jade tape the rest of the balloons around the walls.  He swallows down a hot cup of tea in his corner, a foot propped up on an empty chair while Karen dances around Jade, helps Perrie dress some of the tables in pretty linen and the swell of this – all of the people in this city he loves putting forth this much effort for someone else he thinks, no, _knows_ he’s in love with – stretches helplessly over his skin until he burns his tongue on his tea.

Louis barrels through the door first with Andy attached to his hip and Maz laughing behind them.  Liam should’ve predicted the loud laughter, those wild blue eyes, anxious smile on those lips the second Free spilled from the jukebox – _Now don’t you wait or hesitate. Let’s move before they raise the parking rate_.  He stays in his corner while Andy sweeps Karen into a hug, knocking her off her feet.  Maz finds a stool at the bar with Perrie, smiling a little too shyly.  Louis falls into his lap with a bemused smirk, arms encircling his neck and Liam cuddles into his embrace like it’s been too long and not a few weeks.

“Missed you,” Louis mumbles into the thick of Liam’s hair and Liam squeezes his hips in response.

“Can you believe this sod never makes it home for _your_ birthday but he comes into town for your – “

Liam chokes out a noise with pleading eyes and he hates the way Andy uses the term ‘ _boyfriend_ ’ without hesitance now.  It’s not that Liam has given definition to this thing, this whatever he has with some boy he only met a month ago but he’s sort of in love with it.

_All of it_.

Louis laughs against Liam’s cheek, toys with the collar of his shirt until Liam feels shameless, skittish fingers working under Louis’ Black Sabbath t-shirt.  He offers his cheek for Louis to press a messy kiss to and they trade off compliments about Liam’s shoulders, Louis’ fringe, Liam’s stubble over his cheeks, Louis’ assortment of purplish bruises across his neck until they’re tired and dizzy on each other.

“Samuels, you’re jealousy over my affection for these idiots is showing,” Louis teases with his fingers still tangled in Liam’s hair.

Andy rolls his eyes instantly, shoulders squaring.  “The fact that you managed to find time off from that Uni of yours to travel back here for _Zayn_ , not _Liam_ , amazes me.”

Louis lifts his brow before shrugging his shoulders.  “Maybe I came back because I miss this place.”

Andy snorts, waving him off.  “No one miss this piss-hole,” he chuckles, stomping to the bar to flop down onto the stool next to Perrie.  “But I’ll take that as a compliment, Tommo.”

Louis scoffs and folds further around Liam until their hands lose track of the places they’ve touched and the spots still needing that comforting stroke.

Harry and Niall stumble through the door after a cup of tea and a few shots for Louis, Eleanor slinking smooth hips behind them.  Liam buries his nose into Niall’s fluffy, blonde hair with an arm curved around Harry’s back and a warm cheek for Eleanor to kiss.  Andy tugs Eleanor away and into his lap and Liam pretends not to notice the kiss they exchange because, _oh, that_ is _something new_.

Louis kicks at Harry’s shin before Harry hoists Louis up by the thighs and they’re shamelessly erotic with their kisses this time, a string of ‘ _I missed you_ ,’ ‘ _I hate when you’re gone_ ,’ and ‘ _will you fuck me quiet later, please?’_ rushed between their lips until Liam has to look away with blush streaking his cheeks.  He shares a beer with Niall behind the bar and grins at the way Niall goes on and on about Gemma’s visits to his University, taking up photography and art classes to keep up with the things she loves, his quiet admission that he’s in love with her that no one hears but Liam thinks it’s painfully obvious from the flush of his cheeks and the glitter in his eyes.

“Where is that birthday chap anyways?” Louis calls out over the buzz of Aretha Franklin and the uncorking of a bottle of champagne via Karen.

Liam smiles abashed against his knuckles when too many sets of eyes fall on him and his teeth gnaw his bottom lip raw as he lifts his shoulders nervously.  He presses into the counter behind him, ducks his head to shield their looks from his blush and he’ll never get used to this awful, atrocious feeling inside of his chest – 

‘ _It’s called love, sweetheart, didn’t you know?_ ’ his mum whispered one night in the kitchen of the bakery with flour smeared over her cheeks and a smile lit up on her lips.

He’s thankful when he hears the office door click shut and heavy footfalls down the hall signal his heart into a rabid rhythm.  He lifts his brow, eyes chasing down the shadows until he spots a mused quiff, long eyelashes, rough stubble, defined cheeks, and amber eyes he’s awaken to enough mornings now to know whatever this is, it’s _real_.

It’s _inescapable_ and _palpable_ and so fucking real.

Zayn pushes up the sleeves of an old plaid shirt that fits loose around his shoulders and chest and Louis whistles at him because he knows, they all know it’s Liam’s.  His jeans are ripped across the knees, boots thudding over the hardwood and he’s wearing a sheepish smirk when the heavy lights fall on him.  His hair is loose with product and his colorful fingers rub at his incoming beard, the paint stains on his shirt a fleck of green, pink, blue spots.

“Always tardy,” Harry teases when Zayn’s close enough, dragging him into a half-hug that Zayn grins with.

“Shut it,” Zayn mumbles, sounding so much like Liam with a hand spread over the small of Harry’s back.

“My life has been incomplete without you,” Niall announces, hopping over the bar to haul Zayn into his arms, snuggling into the crook of Zayn’s neck.

Zayn shakes with a laugh, reaches out to yank Louis into the embrace and the three of them hum against each other like _family_.

And it’s what they are, all of them, like it’s always been.

“You owe me cab fare and a warm bed to lie in since I’m missing class tomorrow for this,” Louis declares, knocking a fist into Zayn’s shoulder.

Zayn shoves him off with an aching laugh, still clutching onto Niall because Niall needs this – contact, reassurance, promises that things like _foreve_ r and _always_ exist.

Liam loves that Zayn recognizes that, loves that he’s playful with Louis instead of fond and genuine with Harry instead of protective.  He fits into all of those small pieces Liam never could with them and he hiccups out a breath when Zayn looks at him from across the room like he knows what Liam’s thinking.

“My mummy is giving me shit about taking a week off from classes to kick around here but, secretly, I think she’s happy I’m back,” Harry says, fitting back onto his stool next to Eleanor.

“Oh Haz,” Louis gushes and they’re lost in each other’s arms again, dramatic kisses and fiery hands until Niall knocks them apart.

“Quit it you twats,” he hisses, accent thick.

“Quit shagging my sister,” Harry argues and they scowl at each other before giggling, Niall fitting into Harry’s lap with Louis.

Zayn sinks into a hug from Karen, kissing her cheek sweetly and laughing into her shoulder when she ruffles his hair.

“So happy you’re always here,” she says with spread cheeks, a quirked up smile.  “He’s so lovely now.  My happy little boy and you, you’re just so special, Zayn.  If you ever need anything – “

Zayn’s lips twitch into a grin and he nods because she says this all of the time – _‘If you ever need anything, the two of you, I’m just a few streets away from your flat.’_

“I know,” he whispers, pulling her into another hug that lasts longer, his hand smoothed over the center of her back.  “We both know.”

The boom of the music and the laughter and the electricity in the room shocks him alive, but not half as much as Zayn’s smile when he slides behind the bar.  He hip-checks Liam, stealing his towel to rub away damp paint from his fingers.  His teeth capture a corner of his bottom lip and Liam hurts for the taste of those lips.

“Finish your piece for the trip to London next week?” Liam asks, his fingers instinctively rubbing at Zayn’s hip.

Zayn’s cheeks flush and he shakes his head shyly, curling closer until Liam’s got an arm around his waist.

“Almost,” he says, his voice scratched from the smoke – and maybe from the rough moans he echoed through their room this morning when Liam was blowing him sleepily, his tongue flicking impatiently at the head of Zayn’s cock until it spilled sweetly down his throat.

“’s probably no good anyway and they’ll hate it,” he adds, dropping his chin.

Liam’s chest expands with a need to cover his face in kisses, swallow him up in protective arms just to feel Zayn’s breath across his neck.  He shoves down those thoughts to fix a kiss to the corner of Zayn’s mouth, stroke incessant fingers up Zayn’s spine even though he hates the barrier of cotton separating them.

“It’s brilliant,” Liam insists, nudging his nose to Zayn’s cheek until his chin lifts.  Liam slips into bright, bright eyes and everything goes fuzzy, out of focus.

He strokes a thumb over Zayn’s lip, the one he left bruised and raw earlier, before whispering, “It’s incredible, I promise.  Like something I’ve seen in magazines or pictures of New York.  The things you do with paint and graffiti and, I swear Zayn, if that Batman was for me, I will strip you bare and swallow your dick until you can’t come anymore.”

Zayn shivers against him and smiles into the hollow of his neck while slipping paint-stained fingers between the buttons of his shirt.  He exhales an appreciative sound that Liam catalogues along with all of his other favorite noises – the birds outside of their flat’s window in the morning, the giggle Zayn lets out when they watch _Knocked Up_ , the sleepy yawn Zayn releases every morning when he stumbles into the kitchen for coffee and a kiss, his name over Zayn’s lips whenever he pushes deep into Zayn with their sheets tangled around their bodies and the headboard rocking harshly against their bedroom wall.

Liam releases Zayn when Louis jumps behind the bar and watches them fondly as they tumble through fast-paced conversations about everything they’ve missed, even though Liam knows they chat every day and Skype on the weekends because they’re that in love with each other.  He’s not jealous – not entirely – but he arches an eyebrow at Louis and nudges his knee to the back of Zayn’s thigh to separate them before moving to the other side of the bar to pour up shots of vodka and fill mugs of beer for the others.

“Almost got all of your stuff shipped out here?  Our Uni room looks rather bare now,” Harry says an hour later, all of them gathered around Liam’s favorite table with a bottle of amber Bacardi sitting in the center.

Zayn smiles against Liam’s shoulder with the first couple of buttons on his shirt undone, Liam’s fingers searching out new skin to press against.

“My mum is picking up the rest in a few weeks.  Just some books, old comics, my summer stuff,” Zayn responds, dragging his nose over Liam’s shoulder like a puppy.

Liam giggles and fingers at the new ink on Zayn’s skin – the snake curled around his shoulder, the space monkey, the tiger on his other shoulder – before slouching into his chair with a leg in Niall’s lap.

“Is she done being angry with you over quitting Uni?” Louis asks while over-pouring a few shots.  The liquid spreads over the table into a mess of napkins and dead cigarettes.

Zayn shrugs carelessly, biting at his lip.  Liam strokes his fingers up the nape of his neck, into the prickly hair there until the tension in Zayn’s muscles loosens.  He scoots his chair closer, shuffles a hand over Zayn’s hip.

He’s still not certain what spurred him to ask Zayn to stay on the morning of the New Year.  He doesn’t know what made Zayn say _‘yes’_ instead of _‘I can’t’_ or why he was so giddy afterwards.  He can still remember the shock of Harry’s face and the phone conversations late into the night with Zayn’s parents.  He can hear Zayn’s sniffles, the disappointed pull of his face when he crawled into Liam’s bed afterwards and the way he kissed Zayn’s lips swollen with promises of driving Zayn back if he wanted to leave.

Zayn refused to leave.

He made all of the calls needed to withdraw from his courses at the University and squeezed his fingers around Liam’s when Liam told his parents he was taking all of his saved up quid to move into a flat with some boy he barely knew.  His sisters called, sent extra pounds to help with furniture and groceries and offered up smile-inducing congratulations that stuck to Liam’s chest when Zayn smiled against his shoulder.  He helped Zayn get a job at the bookstore and they cuddled around Liam’s laptop to search out places for Zayn to sell his artwork until they found a program in London for struggling art kids, the buyers flooding in when Zayn posted a few draft prints online.

“She’s at peace with it now, I think,” Zayn admits with a stuttered breath.  Liam squeezes his hip tighter, drags chapped lips to Zayn’s neck until he squirms.  “’m supposed to go back to Bradford at the end of the month, visit with her and my abbu and sisters.”

Louis quirks up a sharp eyebrow at Liam, something freezing his face like he’s restless.

“Liam’s coming with me,” Zayn says quickly, stealing glances between Liam and Louis.  Liam chokes down happiness and nerves, sketching Zayn’s jaw with his lips.  “I told her I want them to meet him.  I wanted – “

“They’re going to love him,” Harry says instantly, tugging fingers through Louis’ hair.

“Everyone loves Leemo,” Niall declares, his words a little slurred but still so warm.

“Yeah, everyone does,” Zayn beams, his cheeks lifted and his fingers finding Liam’s under the table.  He gives them a sharp squeeze before adding, “And I do.  I love him.”

Louis jolts, Harry’s laughter proud and echoing, Niall downing Louis’ shot with a wail.

Liam shifts in his chair, turns to Zayn, and he’s at home in those genuine eyes.  He’s in love with the honesty, the drag of Zayn’s lips into a smile, and he kisses an ‘ _I love you too’_ to Zayn’s mouth without hesitation.

“Beautiful,” Niall croons, nicking Harry’s shot as well.

“Shut up you fuckbag,” Louis says without a trace of anger and Niall curls closer with a chin on Louis’ shoulder and a hand in Harry’s curls.

Liam grins against Zayn’s lips and soaks all of them in until his skin itches with comfort.  He curves an arm around Zayn’s shoulder, kicks at Niall’s knee, reaches over the mess of Bacardi to touch a few fingers to Louis’ wrist and shares a smile with Harry.  He whispers an endless flood of _‘I love you’_ to each of them, bruises the words to Zayn’s lips when it’s his turn, and falls in love with this moment.

With this city, this place, this time of year.

He burns with a sweet assurance that they – _his boys, his Zayn_ – will always be his _carpe diem_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if this was a bit long. Hopefully it wasn't boring and a little bit enjoyable. I don't know how I feel about the ending but I wanted something sweet and cute after all of the _waiting_ to get there (and I needed something ridiculously sugary after my last fic).
> 
> I edited this on Monster energy drinks and a lack of sleep, so please excuse the mistakes.
> 
> Thanks to anyone who leaves a comment or a kudos or links this fic. You are _incredible_ and I wish you could see my smile when I read them! Might take a much needed break after this one to recharge but you can reach out to me quicker [here](http://jmcats.tumblr.com) if you need to.


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